#From Beer to Eternity review

[justagalwhowrites]

Undone

After a stressful week at the office, Joel knows just how to take care of his wife. AKA Joel Miller doms the stress out of you.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: No Outbreak AU. Established relationship, husband and wife. Dom!Joel x Sub!Reader (light). Tiny little age gap (like 5 years? I'm picturing Joel at 44 and reader at 39?) Unprotected P in V sex. Oral sex, F receiving. Creampie. Overstimulation. Aftercare.

Length: 5.4k

A/N: This is totally self indulgent. It's also like... entirely smut. Sorry. But not really. OK love you bye!

Joel knew what you were after the minute you kicked the door closed. 

It was Friday and it had been a hell of a week for you. Joel had done his best to support you through it - he’d finished up one big job on Tuesday and didn’t start the next one until Monday - so he’d taken the lead on keeping the household running while you put in extra hours and came home frustrated and exhausted every night. 

He knew it wasn’t going to magically be better just because it was Friday, so he’d spent the day trying to make the end to your work week as good as he could. He went to the HEB and got your favorite snacks, picked out flowers for the kitchen table, even went by the liquor store on the way home to get everything you’d need to unwind at the end of your day. He started smoking ribs early that afternoon and was outside to sauce them when he heard the door slam behind you. 

Joel didn’t need to see what happened, he knew from the sound that you’d thrown the door open and then kicked it shut behind you. He’d bet the check from his next job that you’d be face down on the couch, your shoes and briefcase a little trail from the front door to the living room. He shook his head, taking a swig of Shiner before closing the smoker and heading inside to find his wife. 

You were exactly where he thought you’d be, taking up almost the entire length of the couch, flat on your stomach, blazer still on but your heels and bags scattered between you and the front door. 

“Aw baby,” he said sympathetically. “That great a day, hm?” 

You made a sound that was caught somewhere between a grunt and a groan. 

“Want to talk about it?” 

You made the sound again and Joel tried not to laugh at it. 

“Here,” he said, coming and adjusting your legs so he could sit beside you on the couch. You groaned as he did but he guided you from lying on your stomach to sitting up to leaning on him, your face in his chest. He put his arm around you and gave you a squeeze. “Tell me what melted down.” 

“We have our quarterly earnings release going out in less than two weeks,” you sighed. “And it’s a shit show. Legal’s been reviewing that shit for what feels like an eternity and I need to issue the goddamn release announcing the date of the full release but I can’t do that until I actually know that legal and financial are going to have stuff sorted in time and the CEO has emailed me twice a day about it the whole week because sure, the legal team definitely falls under my department…” 

Joel held the still mostly full bottle of beer in front of you and you took it from him, your fingers brushing his and you were quiet for a moment as you took a sip before handing it back. 

“Also, HR is going to be the death of me,” you continued, on a tear now. “I swear, it shouldn’t be that hard to find a qualified entry level candidate but here we are, still short staffed 10 weeks after I got the OK to hire. They’ve sent me two resumes, Joel. Two. I called them today to ask how many they’d received and they’ve had 226 candidates apply and they’ve sent me fucking two! I refuse to believe that just one percent of applicants were remotely qualified so I asked them to forward me all the applications since, apparently, recruiting can’t do their damn jobs so I’m going to have to do it for them…” 

Joel nodded along, handing you the beer periodically when he felt you getting too worked up. He found himself, not for the first time, awed by what you did for a living. He didn’t understand much of it, really, and he was thankful he didn’t need to. He wasn’t cut out for that kind of shit. You, on the other hand, had jumped in with both feet when you’d started at your company seven years ago when the two of you had just started dating, You’d risen up the ranks quickly and you now had a team of several dozen people reporting up to you. As gentle and sweet as Joel knew you to be at your core, he knew you were also unflinchingly driven at work. During the COVID shut down, he’d gotten a glimpse of it, listening to you take people - mostly men who seemed to think you weren’t as capable as you clearly were - to task and get things done. He was eternally grateful that, when the two of you fought, you didn’t take him down the way you did people who crossed you in the office. Though that stood in sharp contrast to how Joel heard you talk to the people who reported up to you, with you seemingly always happy to lend an ear or provide guidance or take the heat if they fucked something up that was going outside your department. 

Unfortunately, that meant you had weeks like this one, where plenty went wrong and you had no one to pass the buck to. And he knew as well as you did that you wouldn’t just let something fall apart, not if there was a damn thing you could do about it. Even if that meant working yourself into the ground. 

After a while you just deflated against him and he handed you the beer again. You took a long drink, emptying the bottle, and Joel took it from you to set on the side table. 

“Feelin’ better?” He asked, his nose brushing your hair. 

“Kind of,” you sighed, pressing yourself closer to him. 

“Somethin’ more I can do?” He asked, trying to make sure that he wasn’t nudging you in the direction he was hoping this would go. 

“Yeah,” you said, something shifting in your tone when you said it. No longer frustrated and fed up, instead needy and wanting. You sat up from him and looked at him through your eyelashes, practically pouting. “Turn my brain off for a bit?” 

Joel’s heart picked up, heat and tension already gathering low in him. 

“Aw, my baby need me to fuck her stupid?” He asked, reaching out to cup your face in his hand. His thumb traced along the arch of your cheekbone as his eyes locked on your blown pupils. “You need me to make that big brain of yours slow down for a while, that it?” 

“Yes please,” you breathed. He could feel your skin getting warmer below his touch. 

“Please what?” 

“Please sir,” you said, holding your hands up with your wrists together, like an offering. “Please fuck me stupid. Please sir.” 

He quirked his jaw before he smiled, dark and low.

“Good girl,” he growled. He got up and closed his large hands around your wrists before pulling you sharply to your feet, looking you up and down as he did. There was something that drove him wild, seeing you like this. Dressed in your armor of the business world, a place where lesser men had to go to you for permission to do a goddamn thing, and you came home to him, begging him to strip you down to something small and vulnerable and easily consumed. 

He wasn’t sure why you’d picked him of all people. When you’d met almost eight years earlier, his first thought was that you were way out of his fucking league. A friend of Tommy’s then girlfriend now wife, you were a few years younger than him but had clearly kept your life on the right fucking track the whole time instead of driving it into the ground for a while first. You’d gone to college, built a damn impressive career, had goals and dreams and plans for yourself. You were beautiful and smart and funny and kind and the first time he’d taken your clothes off he was still not entirely sure why you were letting him do it. 

He’d been even more surprised the first time you’d shared with him that you wanted him to take control in the way he was now. 

“I just have to make decisions all the time,” you’d said, folded into a corner of his couch with a glass of wine in your hands. “I just really want to have someone else take over for a while, you know? Not have to make any plans or take care of anybody else, just enjoy and be enjoyed.” 

That, Joel had thought, he could give you. 

It wasn’t something the two of you always indulged in but there were days like this one where you seemed to crave it. Maybe even a step beyond that - you needed it. You needed the safety of Joel’s guidance, the comfort of his control, the ease of his pleasure. He liked to give you those things. More than liked it, sometimes he lived for it. 

Today was one of those days. 

He led you to the bedroom and stood you at the foot of the bed, your wrists still firmly in his hands as his eyes searched yours. 

“You just want to be my little doll, is that it?” He asked, his thumbs brushing the inside of your wrists. Your pulse was heavy and hard. “Want me to take control so all you have to do is feel what I let you feel?” 

“Yes,” you breathed. 

“Yes what.” 

“Yes sir,” you were practically squirming. 

“What are your colors,” he said more than asked. 

“Green, yellow, red,” you answered quickly. 

“Where are you now?” 

“Green.” 

“Good girl,” he guided your hands so they hung at your sides. “Don’t move until I tell you.” 

He watched you resist the urge to nod and he slipped his hands below the lapels of your jacket, running his hands over your skin for a moment before shoving the sleeves down your arms and leaving the blazer in a pile on the floor. He watched you swallow, your throat working and he tried not to think about making you kneel and taking his cock into that pretty throat of yours. He knew just how good it would feel while you sucked him, how fucking good it would feel to come down your throat. 

Maybe later. Right now, he needed to take care of you. And that’s exactly what he was going to do. 

*** 

When Joel touched you like this, it was like something unspooled inside yourself. There had been a knot in your stomach for days at least - maybe longer - and nothing had worked to untangle it. Not crossing things off your to do list at the office, not the yoga class you’d skipped lunch to take, not the iced latte your assistant had ducked out to grab you that afternoon. But Joel’s hands on your skin as they slipped the slender straps of your satin top down your arms were better than anything else, especially when your mind wasn’t going a mile a minute thinking of ways to please him in return. You watched as he moved to undress you, his eyes heavy and hot and hungry as your top pooled around your hips. He reached around your body to unhook your bra, casting it aside before cupping your breasts in his large palms, groaning as he did. 

“You feel so good,” his thumbs brushed your nipples. “My soft, pretty fuckin’ girl.” 

“Joel,” you whimpered, clenching your hands into fists to keep from reaching out to touch him. He’d told you to stay still and you had to obey. If you didn’t, you knew he’d drag out your first orgasm for what felt like an eternity, bringing you just to the edge of it but never letting you fall into your climax until you were a desperate, dripping, squirming mess. 

“What, baby?” He almost cooed at you, just a hint of a teasing edge to his tone. “What’s my baby need?” 

“More,” you whined. “I need more, please, I need…” 

He took his hands off you then and looked you in the eye and you almost reached for him before you caught yourself. 

“Who decides what you need right now,” he said. You moaned and he ignored you. “Who. Tell me, pretty girl.” 

“You,” you said. 

“That’s right,” he nodded. “And I’ll give you more when I decide you need more and I decide I’m done enjoyin’ the parts of you I’m enjoyin’ right now. So. You stand still like a good little doll and we’ll see when I’ll let you have more. Got it?” 

“Yes,” you said. 

He took your chin in his fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye. 

“Yes what.” 

“Yes sir.” 

His crooked smile dimpled his cheek. 

“Good girl.” 

He returned to touching you, running his large and callused hands over your shoulders to your chest, holding and massaging your breasts and you could tell he was taking his time less for himself and more because he knew what it was doing to you. That it was making you achy and desperate and the thoughts that had been weighing on you all day at the office were slipping out of your mind, drifting far away into the ether. 

“Think I remember you sayin’ something about more?” Joel said, his voice low and gravelly as his hand slipped over your stomach, below the bunched fabric of your shirt, below the waistband of your pants until his fingertips were brushing your bare mound inside your panties. You whimpered. “How about I give you some more, hm?” 

His index finger reached out and brushed the top of your clit, sending a shiver through you, all the heat you had inside yourself pooling low in your stomach. 

Joel chuckled. 

“Think she likes it.” 

He pressed a little lower, a little firmer, working your sensitive nub in slow, languid circles. 

“She like this too?” 

You nodded frantically. 

“Thought I told you not to move,” Joel said, stern. 

“But…” 

“No buts,” he cut you off. “You wanted to give me control so you give me control. Otherwise, you won’t get what you want. Got it?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“You’re lucky,” he said as he went to open your pants. “Got me all worked up, too. Too worked up to draw this out the way you deserve, squirmin’ the way you are.” 

He got on his knees in front of you and gathered the fabric of your shirt, pants and underwear in his hands and pulled them all down in one go, the sudden exposure of your skin to the air making you gasp and goosebumps scatter over you in sharp little pin pricks. 

“Fuck, there you are,” he groaned, his hands coming to grip the thick swell of your ass, his fingers digging into the meat of you as he pressed a kiss to your stomach just below your belly button. You moaned, wanting nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his curls. You clenched your fists tighter, nails digging into your palms, acutely aware of where he was touching you because of the absence of him everywhere else. 

He trailed his mouth down to your slit, his tongue dipping into you there, brushing against your clit, the heat of his mouth in sharp contrast to the cold air against your wetness. His hands slipped up your back, finding your waist before Joel stood, his still clothed body so close to your naked one. 

“Lie down for me,” he said, a little breathless. “Middle of the bed.” 

You rushed to obey and watched hungrily as Joel undressed himself, his black t-shirt coming up and over his head, his jeans opening to reveal his tight boxer briefs with his thick, hard cock straining the fabric. He took off everything before crawling up the bed over you and, for half a moment, you thought he really was going to give into you that quickly, give you exactly what you wanted that fast. But instead of settling between your thighs with his heavy length brushing against your slit and his mouth on yours, he fell to the side of you, the weight of him jostling the mattress. You turned your head to look at him, confused, and he laughed, dark and low. 

“You didn’t think you were gonna make me give in that fast, did you?” He asked. He slid one arm below your ribs, his hand coming up and around the back of you to hold your breast while his other hand teased a feather light path down from your throat, over your chest, your stomach to your slit. “No, not done with this yet.” 

“But…” 

“You just lie still and let me worship you,” he said, his palm cupping your mound, his middle finger settling between your lower lips as he put gentle pressure against your clit. The tip of his finger circled your dripping entrance but didn’t slip inside where you were aching and desperate for him. “Want to enjoy you for a while.” 

He didn’t give you a chance to protest, his mouth finding just the right spot on your throat at the same moment he added pressure to your clit, grinding his hand against your most tender place and making your back arch below his touch. 

Joel kissed and licked and sucked along your neck, your collarbone, your breast, his cock brushing against your thigh as he manipulated your body and you could feel his precome on your skin when it did and you were desperate to touch him there, to feel just how hard you’d made him, make him start to unravel the way he was doing to you. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, a finger sliding inside of you, making you groan. 

“But I want…” 

He pulled back from you to look in your eyes and you could tell from the glassy look on his face that you probably already looked like a fucked out mess. 

“You tryin’ to make me feel good or you want it for yourself?” He asked, brows raised. You tried to find the words but couldn’t. He nodded. “S’what I thought, you sit still like I fuckin’ told you. You try to touch me and I won’t let you come, got it? This is about you, not me so you’re gonna lay there and take it, understand?” 

“Yes sir,” you whimpered. 

He went back to working you over, adjusting so that he could fully kiss down your body until his head was between your thighs, two fingers buried inside of you as he looked up your body to your face. 

“New rules,” he said, pressing his lips to your clit for a moment and sucking it into his mouth before continuing. “Want you to come and I want you to come hard. You’re allowed to touch my head to put me where you need but you do anything else with those hands and we’re startin’ over. Understood?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Good girl.” 

He practically dove into your pussy, his thumb working your clit, his tongue licking deep into your channel. The fire in your belly burned brighter and it was like you could feel all the blood in your body pulling into the center of you. Your hands flew to his head, the thick of his hair and the heat of his scalp almost sharp against your fingers after having felt nothing but your own palms for what felt like forever. You rocked your hips against his face as he ate at you, a finger slipping into you alongside his tongue, working the inside of you deftly so that you were never empty but never lacking the friction of him moving in you. His fingertip curled into the soft, sensitive place inside of you that he found so easily now, adding the perfect amount of pressure as his thumb and nose worked your clit and you felt your pussy get so tight and hot you worried, for half a second, that it would hurt him before every worry flew out of your head entirely, your entire body flooded with waves of pleasure as you came on his tongue. 

Joel worked you through your orgasm, never letting up as you moaned and panted, your grip on his hair easing as your body started to go limp. Your pussy was so sensitive when your climax eased but Joel didn’t pay your little whimpers any mind. He pulled his mouth from you but added another finger, fucking into you with his hand and adjusting so his palm was grinding against your clit as he did. 

“There you go,” he panted, wiping your slick from his mouth before taking his cock in his hand and working himself with it. “That what you needed, pretty girl?” 

“Yes sir,” you whimpered. 

“Good,” he said, his eyes ranging over you, dark and hot. “Because now it’s my turn.” 

He pulled his fingers from you and spread your thighs a little wider, lining his cock up with your still weakly grasping hole for half a moment before thrusting deep into you in one devastating go. You gasped at the stretch of him filling you like that, the inside of you still soft and tender from your orgasm. Your fingers scrambled at the blanket below you, your back arched and taut and you tried to hold onto something - anything - in your head beside how he was splitting you open. 

“I say you could use your hands like that?” He asked, his fingers finding your wrists and clamping around them. He pressed deep inside you and folded over you, bringing your hands with him, pressing your wrists down into the mattress over your head. “Didn’t think so. You’re my little doll right now, ain’t you? Mine to do what I want with and I want you to take it.” 

“Joel,” you whimpered. 

“That ain’t my name right now, is it?” 

“Sir,” you corrected, resisting the urge to rock your hips up against him. “Please!” 

“Please what?” 

You couldn’t put words to what you wanted to ask for and Joel just smirked before releasing your wrists and sitting up, looking down over your body to where he disappeared inside of it. 

“What I thought,” he said, his hands pressing your thighs wide before his thumb trailed over where you were split open on him to your clit, teasing you in a slow circle that made you jerk involuntarily below him. He took it away, his hand on the soft flesh of your thigh again. “You leave those hands there and take it. You can take it, pretty girl. Know you can.” 

With that, he pulled back, slow and aching, before fucking back into you, hard and fast with a forceful grunt. You watched him fuck you, his cock slamming into you with enough force that it jerked your body up and down the bed. You were lost in it, the way you could see his muscles flex, the way his eyes ranged over you - watching the place he was spreading you open and the way your tits bounced for him and up to your face to meet your eyes and back again. It was almost hypnotic, like there was nothing else in the world that existed outside of him. He was controlling you totally, fucking into you with enough force that you couldn’t even breathe out of sync with his thrusts, your body just something he could manipulate and pleasure and use however he saw fit. 

You weren’t sure how long he fucked you like that before his hands ran over your thighs to your core, his thumbs brushing along your clit, pressing into you there and working you in hard little circles as your channel started to tighten around him again. 

“There we go,” he panted. “Got another one right there don’t you? You’re gonna give it to me, aren’t you pretty girl. Gonna give me everything, ain’t you?”

“Yes sir,” you whined, your fingernails digging into your palms as you fought to keep your hands still. 

“Good girl,” he pressed himself deep as he worked your clit and returned to his same punishing rhythm, the head of him finding the place inside you he’d claimed for himself. He left one thumb on your clit, his other hand stretching up and over your stomach, fingers splaying wide on you until it was in the middle of your chest where you knew he could feel how your heart was pounding behind your ribs. The feel of him everywhere was overwhelming, the tight spool of pleasure that had never fully relaxed after your first orgasm already wound unbearably tight again. 

“Want you to come for me,” he said, voice needy. “Want you to be a good girl and come. Give it all to me, baby, want you to just let go and give it all to me, let it all go, c’mon and come for me, make me fuckin’ feel it…” 

You cried out as you obeyed, your channel fluttering over his cock as he kept fucking you deep and hard. You could feel your orgasm in the very center of you, in every muscle and every nerve, your climax taking hold of you so firmly that you felt a gush of liquid rush out of you. 

“Fuck, there you go,” he said, not letting up. “Fuck baby, love when you squirt for me, such a good fuckin’ girl…” 

The wet snap of his hips into you was obscene and, as your orgasm eased, your body was already drawing tight again. Your heart raced and you could feel everything, everything, so sharp and harsh and overwhelming. Your head swam, your skin prickled. 

“Love feeling you come for me,” Joel was still fucking into you, hard and bruising like he was trying to climb inside your skin and claim a place for himself there. “Love when you get all tight and desperate, love making you all needy…” 

You let out a fucked out little whimper, tears pricking at your eyes, not able to see straight through the haze of your already building orgasm. Joel leaned over you, his cock buried deep but going still. 

“You with me, pretty girl?” He asked, his hands sliding up your arms to find your wrists, holding you gently in place. You couldn’t seem to find the words to answer, too overstimulated to think of anything beyond how he was filling you and surrounding you. “Gimme a color, baby.” 

“Yellow,” you managed. 

 He took your limp wrists in his large palms and guided your hands to his skin, resting them on his broad shoulders. 

“That help?” He asked. “You can nod.” 

You nodded quickly, your breathing evening out, body still tight and strung out. 

“Color?” 

“Green,” you said, the tears that were in your eyes slipping down your cheeks but not being replaced by new ones. 

“Good,” he shifted inside you, pulling back a little before thrusting in again. “Because I ain’t done with you yet. You keep those hands right where I put ‘em and just focus on coming one more time for me, need you to milk me dry, baby.” 

But his pace eased, less frantic and more desperate, working you slow and firm from within. He buried his face into your neck, his mouth finding that place that sent shocks of pleasure through your whole body. His hands ranged over you, fingers hungry and grasping at your skin, his hips working against your clit as his cock found its home deep within you. 

“Know you’re close,” he said against your skin, lips still close enough to brush against you as he spoke. He kissed along your neck, nose teasing along your throat. “You got one more in you, baby, I know you do.” 

“Sir,” you whimpered, pleading, not sure if you wanted to come or wanted to just dissolve. 

“You can come,” he fucked you slow and deep. His public bone pressed against your clit and your back arched. “Want you to come, want to feel you come. Make me feel you, baby. Be a good girl and make me feel you.” 

You dared to let yourself move, just enough that you could rock your hips up against him, working yourself with his body as you felt him grow impossibly thicker and harder inside you. Or, maybe, you were just tightening further around him, body clinging to him in one last desperate push for closeness as your climax hit again. You cried out with it and you couldn’t just leave your hands on Joel’s shoulders, instead latching onto his hair and sliding down his back, pulling him flush against your body so the only thing left in the world was him and his skin and the thick of his cock as he started to pulse inside of you. 

Your orgasm almost hurt it was so intense. You could feel every inch of Joel’s cock in you, the heat and softness of his skin against you, every muscle in your body going rigid and tense for a moment before relaxing. Your vision went spotty and you got light headed and you lost track of time. 

The next thing you knew, you were in Joel’s arms, cradled against his chest, his fingers trailing a gentle path along the edge of your hairline and jaw, thumb brushing the plush of your lips. 

“There you are,” he said softly and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his large hand coming to rest against your cheek as you turned your head to look at him. His eyes were soft and warm and there was a gentle smile on his face. “How are you feelin’ love?” 

You took stock of your body for a moment, everything feeling light and airy. 

“I’m good,” you smiled a little. 

“Yeah?” He said, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Take a deep breath for me, OK?” 

You nodded a little and did as you were told, only realizing then just how little your lungs had been inflating before. 

“How’s that feelin’?” He asked. “Good?” 

You just nodded, still smiling. 

“How about this for the night,” he said, going back to tracing an easy trail over your skin with his fingertips. “In a few minutes, I get up and get you water and a cocktail while you put on that pretty little swimsuit of yours. You float in the water while I look at ya and finish those ribs in the smoker…” 

“You’re making me ribs?” You almost pouted, your brows going up. 

Joel chuckled. 

“Yeah, that OK?” 

“That’s my favorite,” you said, feeling like you might be about to cry. 

“I know it is, baby,” he said, kissing your temple again. “S’why I made ‘em. Got that potato salad you like, green beans, cornbread too. Even got that chocolate cake you like so much…” 

“The Oreo one?” You sniffed, tearing up. 

“The Oreo one,” he brushed your hair back. “You still with me there baby?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, crying a little. You weren’t entirely sure why, just every emotion you’d had over the past week seeming to bubble up at once. “I think so…” 

“You’re OK,” Joel said, pulling you closer, his lips gentle on your skin. “I’ve got you.” 

You just nodded against him and focused on how his skin felt on yours, his warmth and strength grounding while your mind was still swimming. 

“What about after dinner?” You sniffed. 

“We can watch one of those movies you like so much,” he said. “I know the ones that’ve been on your list, you don’t gotta pick unless you want to. Sound good?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “But… can we just stay here for a little while first? Please?” 

“Course baby,” he said. “Whatever you need. I’ll take care of you.” 

You nuzzled into his skin and breathed deep and you didn’t really know why you’d been so stressed when you got home to begin with. You just knew that you had Joel and that, as long as he was there, everything else would be OK.

[onlydylanobrien]

Live from New York, It’s Dylan O’Brien!

The 33-year-old plays Dan Aykroyd in Jason Reitman’s Saturday Night, and he’s not sure he hit it out of the park. But he’s okay with that.

DYLAN O’BRIEN HAS led movies that grossed hundreds of millions of dollars at the box office. He’s shared the screen in a thriller with Michael Keaton (2017’s American Assassin), exchanged jokes with Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson (in 2013’s The Internship), been a long-running MTV teen heartthrob (in 92 episodes of Teen Wolf), voiced a Transformer (in 2018’s Bumblebee), and, hell, went toe to toe with Larry David while playing himself on Curb Your Enthusiasm. At 33, he’s accomplished a hell of a lot.

By the time we meet at Men’s Health’s New York City offices to chat on an early September Friday, I’ve already seen a lot of his work. I’ve always liked the way his relaxed demeanor on-screen fits with an undeniable movie-star look—and that holds true in his latest project, Saturday Night (in select theaters now and out nationwide on October 11), in which he stars as comedy legend and original Saturday Night Live cast member Dan Aykroyd; the movie is a depiction of the chaotic 90 minutes before the very first episode of SNL. But I wasn’t sold on his sheer determination—the pure conviction in his character—until I learned that, like myself, he’s a long-suffering fan of the New York Jets.

“I get psyched for the Jets,” he tells me, rocking a full beard, a T-shirt, and a pair of comfortable lacrosse shorts. As he finishes his thought, his eyes light up, but they maintain the slightest sense of eternal frustration behind them. “Even though it’s always like, Jesus Christ.”

Misfortunes of past football seasons aside, O’Brien is as hyped as he’s ever been for the season to come—he’s already done all of his fantasy drafts, though he feels better about some than others—but right now he has one potential problem: He’s going to be in Toronto, for the Toronto International Film Festival, on the night of the Jets season opener. But don’t worry, he’s got it figured out. Saturday Night’s premiere is on Tuesday, and his press schedule on Monday (when the Jets are set to play the San Francisco 49ers) concludes at 5:30 p.m.

“I’m like, I’m going to a pub. I’m getting out of the area, and I’m just going to sit and have some beer and watch the Jets on Monday night all by myself,” he says with a huge smile on his face. “It’s going to be awesome.”

It’s a relatable feeling—for most Jets fans, there’s no happier time than before the season starts, before the annual feelings of dread and doom start to set in. (The Jets would wind up losing to the 49ers, 32-19, in their Week 1 MNF matchup.) But, as Jets fans have learned so well to do over the years, we move on.

O’Brien has a long career behind him, but a long career ahead of him, too. In addition to his upcoming role in Saturday Night (which has earned strong reviews in the early goings), he’s also got the M. Night Shyamalan-produced Caddo Lake premiering on Max this month, and Anniversary, in which he stars alongside Diane Lane and Kyle Chandler, coming at some point in the near future. (It doesn’t currently have a release date.) O’Brien is the kind of actor who elevates the project he’s in, even when the project is already really, really good—but if there’s anything being a Jets fan says about someone, it’s that they know how to adjust, adapt, and bounce back. And in an industry as fickle as show business—which is put on full display in Saturday Night—that’s about as important a quality as any to have in your back pocket.

Ahead of the release of several of the biggest and most exciting projects of his career, O’Brien sat down with Men’s Health to discuss how he keeps himself sane and centered, prepping to play a comedy icon, and some of those casting rumors about him out there on the Internet.

MEN’S HEALTH: What kind of routines do you maintain for your mental and physical health?

DYLAN O’BRIEN: I don’t go to the gym. I’m not a gym guy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t exercise or train or anything. I would say I go in and out of that. I’m usually the type who’s either on a pretty consistent routine and trying to hit it hard and take care of myself for a period of time, and then I’ll let it go for a little bit. Some of that’s influenced by my schedule, too. When you go to work, it’s hard to keep up some kind of regimen. But when I’m home and I’m in between jobs, I’ve become a very domesticated individual. I love grocery shopping and cooking my own meals.

MH: What’s your favorite thing to make?

DOB: If I had to pick one thing, I love, to the soul, making a soup. It’s literally the first thing I’ll do when I go anywhere to settle in. Just a homemade chicken soup, with a chicken carcass, and get creative with the veggies.

MH: Do you have a mental health routine?

DOB: That’s typically what drives the eating and the exercising. I always feel best when I’m in a nice routine and taking care of myself. As I’ve gotten into my 30s, sleep is so important, and periods of laying off alcohol are so important. Just treating your body right and getting rest. I like to do a cold plunge session, and that’s very meditative for me. I’ll follow the simple program of “exhaust the body, relax the mind” when I’m going right.

“I was self-conscious that I DIDN’T LOOK LIKE HIM, that I DIDN’T SOUND LIKE HIM, that I thought people wouldn’t think me—Dan Aykroyd.”

MH: I totally understand the concept of using whatever levels us as therapy. Sometimes after work I just need to put the Yankees on and do absolutely nothing in order to fully detox and feel right.

DOB: That’s my soul. The Mets… obviously, baseball is a nearly every day thing. And even when the Mets are not going well, what’s soothed me since I was closely following them when I was a kid is [broadcasters Gary Cohen, Keith Hernandez, and Ron Darling]. Literally, even just throwing the game on in the background while I’m getting dinner ready and just listening to those guys talk baseball—that settles me to my core. I’m totally with you on that.

MH: Is watching sports your main way of decompressing at the end of a long day?

DOB: If it’s baseball season, yeah, nightly Mets is nice. If I’m working, I’ve been known to be on jobs and randomly be bingeing some reality show while I’m on it. It’s such a decompressor at the end of the day. I love reality TV.

MH: What’s your favorite?

DOB: Of all time?

MH: Yeah.

DOB: Well, it’s between Jersey Shore and Vanderpump Rules as far as the all-timers. I’ve been a longtime OG Vanderpump fan, pre-Scandoval, and I just think that show’s a masterpiece. And Jersey Shore is a masterpiece, too. I did a film, Ponyboi, that’s very Jersey-centric, and so I drilled all of the first four seasons of Jersey Shore. My whole routine for that movie, when I needed to decompress, was just working out and watching reality TV. I lost a lot of weight, too, for that movie, and I was just trying to make my little chicken breast, and eat my salad, and work out, and watch Jersey Shore.

MH: Let’s talk about Saturday Night. How would you describe your version of Dan Aykroyd?

DOB: It might be the thing most open to interpretation I’ve ever done. By that, I mean it really was just leaping out of the nest. I’m playing this real person, but [director Jason Reitman] had no intention of just copying the person coming in. He really wanted everyone to have their own spin on the person, which, if you’re overthinking it, can be tough to do because it can be very easy to do. If you’re like, I’m just going to watch my guy’s interviews and sketches, then you can kind of fall into imitation. As far as I know, I was just doing what I thought he was like. But I don’t fucking know. That instinct was that Jason was always telling me what to run with. He was big on not overpreparing, not overwatching things, and not impersonating. I’m curious to hear people’s take, because I don’t really know. I just went with my gut.

MH: Was there one signature quality of Dan you wanted to capture?

DOB: A very earnest intelligence—he’s so quick, it was exhausting. I would always say how exhausted I was, because I’m playing someone who’s way quicker than I am, and so I’m constantly operating at a speed I can’t operate at, because he’s so sharp and fast and he never fumbles and he never curses. He never bides time. You know what I mean?

MH: Absolutely.

DOB: He’s so precise with his improvisation and his comedic skills. I came away with such a larger appreciation than I even had for his genius. And he was so young—he was a kid. He was 23 on that first season of SNL. I never processed him as being too worried about too much, which was a funny contrasting energy to the very tense atmosphere of the film in the hour and a half before showtime. He’s so loose.

MH: It’s interesting you say that, because it’s something I totally clocked, too—Dan is kind of the calm part of a storm that includes people like Chevy Chase (Cory Michael Smith) and John Belushi (Matt Wood). How did you maintain that presence as the movie’s level head?

DOB: My way of achieving that, with permission from Jason, was to embrace this quality in myself that I didn’t originally associate to Dan—that I only then did after Jason pointed it out to me—which was to have an aloofness on set. I feel very relaxed in that space. In a way, I wasn’t too worried. But that comes with the caveat that I entered this process thinking I was so wrong for the part.

MH: Why did you think that?

DOB: I don’t know. I was self-conscious that I didn’t look like him, that I didn’t sound like him, that I thought people wouldn’t think me—Dan Aykroyd. And I guess it was an insecurity that I would be skewered for being miscast or something. But even with that insecurity, again, I’m still so happy to be there and, like, whatever, fuck it. I don’t care if that’s the response. I’m boned, but whatever. It’s great to be here and get to do this, and what a blast of a thing to get to be a part of. So, weirdly enough, that type of aloofness amidst other people having to handle some really tense stuff was what Jason was telling me to embrace.

MH: Have you met Dan?

DOB: No. Not yet. I’m supposed to meet him at TIFF. And apparently that will be both of our first times seeing the movie.

MH: That will be great.

DOB: There was a moment early on, when you go into something like this, you’re playing someone, you imagine that they might want to speak to you. They might be hell-bent on speaking to you, they might be crazy about getting their hands in it, or they might be totally hands off. And to hear that he was so not worried about it, if anything, was the first moment I was like, Oh, maybe we’re right. Because I would’ve met with him, too, but I also didn’t need it. I would have if he insisted. I’d be like, Of course—I’ve got to do that. But I vibe with the fact that he was like, no, let the kid go do it. That’s how I feel like I would react.

MH: What’s your favorite movie of his?

DOB: I was a big Blues Brothers kid. I did the Blues Brothers for my talent show in third grade. I was also a big Tommy Boy kid.

MH: I’ve loved a lot of the comedic stuff that you’ve gotten to do, including your Curb Your Enthusiasm guest appearance. What was working with Larry like?

DOB: Oh, it’s just a blast. He’s a Jets fan, too—I remember that was our first conversation we had. It was like I was just talking to a buddy, at [the popular TriBeCa bar] Walker’s, or something about the Jets. I’ve worked with a lot of comedians, and that space can be weird. The energy can be very overstimulating, and those personalities can tend to be really loud and competing. It can be a very odd atmosphere sometimes. Going to work with a guy like that… I was like, Who knows, he could be a fucking total narcissist tycoon, and he wasn’t. He couldn’t have been more generous, couldn’t have been quicker to laugh at someone else and let someone else have the spotlight. I couldn’t think more of the guy. He’s amazing.

MH: It’s been almost a decade since your accident on the Maze Runner set. When you look back at your recovery, how has that experience most impacted your life?

DOB: It was a life-changing incident. I’ve approached everything differently, you could say, particularly with regards to standing my ground on set. It’s very commonplace in the culture for young actors to be controlled, and the way they strive to do that is by always being like, Oh, don’t become difficult. Don’t be a pain in the ass. Or Are you complaining, are you being difficult? Things like that. I learned after the accident to not conflate taking care of yourself and looking after yourself. Don’t let them manipulate you into thinking that is being difficult, because I can look at that day and know I was a 24-year-old kid who was raising concerns about how we were approaching things, and they were not listened to, they were not respected. And then what happened happened. And by all accounts, it was all pretty gotten away with, I would say, as well. It’s taught me that, at the end of the day, in these spaces, you have your own back, and that’s the most you can rely on. I just turned 33. I’ve been doing this for 15 years. I know the person I am, and the character I bring to set, and the way I treat people and the way that I treat a workspace, and I know I’m not difficult. I know I’m not an asshole. I know I was trying to protect myself that day, and so I’ve just never forgotten that. That’s always rung true as being the thing to hold with me.

“It’s taught me that, at the end of the day, in these spaces, you HAVE YOUR OWN BACK, and that’s the MOST YOU CAN RELY ON.”

MH: And this is something that’s always in the back of your mind, just knowing that you’ve had this experience and it’s shaped where you are now.

DOB: It helps me. It’s a shame. It’s a shame that it had to be that for me. To build this armor for myself of just being like, No, man, I’m going to look after myself, I’m going to take care of myself, and there’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with asking questions. There’s nothing wrong with bringing ideas, even if we’re talking creatively. It’s our job to bring ideas. There’s nothing wrong with raising concerns. There’s nothing wrong with being like, “I think we could do this better, I think we could do this differently.” You know what I mean? That’s the process. It’s a collaborative process. It’s a creative process, but also you’re dealing with big dangerous shit sometimes, too.

MH: Throughout the years, you’ve been rumored to become the Flash and Spider-Man. Is there any truth to the rumors?

DOB: No, never.

MH: Nothing?

DOB: No, none of it. Yeah.

MH: Is that of interest if an opportunity ever came up? Are you a comic book person?

DOB: I never have been. But I wouldn’t rule out anything. Certainly, it’s not of interest to me as of now. Maybe when I was 20 and they were rebooting Spider-Man—I was excited about that. But I didn’t even get past the casting pre-call or anything. No, none of those rumors have ever been true. I didn’t even know there were rumors. I just thought they were people just putting it out there.

MH: People put a bunch of stuff out there and then places pick it up and then stuff snowballs.

DOB: None of anything I’ve ever read about myself is true. So, if you want to use that template, that’s my experience.

MH: So what is of interest to you? What’s your dream?

DOB: There are obviously filmmakers I’ve loved since I was a kid who I would love to work with. I always want to challenge myself, and I always want to go with my gut and trust when I respond to something, I’m responding to it for a reason. Trust that when I’m scared of something, maybe that’s a good thing I should lean into. Try to find the new filmmakers, and try to champion them, and be a part of the early parts of the careers of our new wave of filmmakers. Try to champion original things as much as I can, too. I feel like that’s obviously trending so much further and further away, and towards extinction, that I just feel like it’s important to lend yourself to those things when you can, as much as you can.

This interview has been edited for content and clarity.

Source: menshealth.com

[lunitawrites]

Both Sides of the Moon - part one

pairing: biker!joel miller x fem!reader rating: explicit word count: 2.8k summary: After a troubled childhood you move back to your hometown. You are trying to avoid facing the dark past of your family, but you realize it will be harder than you thought when a mysterious stranger appears in town trying to take revenge. TWs: no-outbreak AU, age gap (reader mid-twenties, Joel is late forties), loss of parents, reference to sex work, reference to foster homes, guns, knife, alcohol consumption, cigarettes, Joel being violent towards reader, petnames, reader has hair long enough that it can be grabbed, otherwise no physical description, no use of y/n a/n: hey! so this is my first attempt at writing, I really hope some of you out there will like it. I am eternally grateful to @papipascalispunk who reviewed and edited my work. Thanks a million to @toxicanonymity and @hier--soir for their suggestions! Shoutout to the other Joel Millers on bikes: a minute from home by @agentmarcuspike, jailbird by @toxicanonymity and little mouse by @katiexpunk & @josephquinnswhore masterlist

You are fidgeting with your nametag in front of the mirror, trying to apply it to your uniform, but you must have bent the needle when you removed it last time because it won't stay up now.

“Don’t worry about it darlin’,” you hear Arlene shout from the kitchen, “It's a small town, everyone knows you by now.”

“I suppose they do,” you mumble and drop the pin to the dresser. She's always been nice to you, almost mothering you, since you started working together in the diner. You take one last look in the mirror, smoothing out your uniform and walking through the kitchen to start your 7 PM shift.

It's a slow start. The townsfolk don't start coming until the sun paints the sky purple and orange, until the dust strats to settle and the cicadas’ song fills up the night. Your shift begins at the bar; whiskey, beer, salted peanuts, a smile or two for better tips. The bar fills up with a subtle buzz, stench of alcohol and anticipation.

Later on in the evening, Sam asks you to wait tables instead. You usually prefer staying behind the bar, but it's Friday night, the dining area will get busy soon. Arlene will need the extra pair of hands taking the orders anyway, so you pick up your notepad and pen and head out to the floor. 

You are always cautious out here, you have to be. The men are not violent, but they always try to take what they think they deserve. A brush of a knuckle on your thighs, eyes lingering on the swell of your breasts, an inappropriate comment disguised as a compliment, fingertips on the curve of your hips as they pass by. Sam, your boss, always makes sure that it’s not more, keeping an eye on you at all times from behind the bar. Sam is one of the few people who knows about your past, who knows that there were times when you were giving a lot more than a smile for some crinkled up bills, who knows that just a few months ago, your uniform was nothing more than a pair of thigh highs and your underwear.

—

You were six when your dad died, and you moved away with your mom right after. You stayed with her for another few months until they diagnosed her. She passed away before the next Christmas. By January, you were in your first foster home. After you got out from your last foster home with nothing more than a few pairs of clothes and the fifty dollar bill that you stole from your foster dad's wallet, you really didn’t see another option for survival. 

It started at a gentlemen's club called Red Rose, just outside of Austin, all neon lights and kitsch, velvet and satin from a decade before. They gave you a room in the motel next to it, but only if you worked the after hours shift, so you agreed. You didn't know what after hours meant at the time, but you would have agreed to almost anything if it meant that you would spend the night in a bed and not somewhere outside.

The after hours, you learned quickly, meant selling your body to anyone who took interest in it during the opening hours of the club. So while you did spend your night in a bed, it was with a truck driver named Dylan, who paid you hundred dollars for an hour of you being a good girl, as he described. Forty of those dollars covered the motel bill and twenty went to the club manager for organizing the deal.

You spent six years working at Red Rose, eventually saving up enough money so you didn't have to stay at the motel. You rented a flat with black mold and sticky linoleum floors, sharing it with three of the other girls from the club. You were driving an old Chevy that one of the girls passed onto you after she moved up north. Six years of Dylans and Bobs and Johns and Joses and Miguels. Six years of sweat and spit and bruises and slaps and come, until you couldn't anymore. 

You moved back to your hometown, although it was never really your home, and while you knew little about the circumstances of your father’s death, you were still afraid to come back, terrified to face the past. But as it turned out, you never had to, as if there was some silent agreement amongst the town that they never spoke of your family. No one gossipped, or if they did, they did so silently that it never reached your ears. They welcomed you into town as if you were a stranger. 

You moved into your old family home at the edge of town. White paint chipped from wooden boards, almost two decades of dust and sorrow covering every inch. You slowly made it your own home, settling into the master bedroom that was once your parents’, but leaving every other room untouched. You have not dared to open the door of your old bedroom yet. 

You still drove the old Chevy when you started working at Sam’s six nights a week, the only diner in town, serving the majority of the people who lived there.

—

It's Friday, which means a good crowd and better tips. Friday means an extra drink for everyone to celebrate yet another week survived in this dusty town in south Texas, just above the border. So you move among the tables with a smile so wide that your face starts to hurt.

It's almost eleven now and most of the tables are occupied; workers for their well-deserved after work drink, youngsters pregaming before driving up to Austin for a night out, some couples leaning over their drinks to be closer to one another, families finishing up their meals, greasy hands stopping you to order another basket of fries. The buzz is loud now, the air in the diner thick and heavy with alcohol and laughter. A usual Friday at Sam’s, until it isn’t.

The door squeaks open, heavy footsteps on the floor, broad shoulders in the doorframe. You really shouldn't be able to hear it over the sound of Friday in the diner, but you do. You lock eyes with deep amber, a pair of sad eyes, searching for a place to sit. Strong arms hidden under a black leather jacket, dark wash jeans, disheveled brown curls, almost halo-like, lit by the street lights behind him. The diner seems to catch up with you, surprised faces turning to the direction of the door, sentences left unfinished, whispers let out, cheeks turned red in surprise, Adam’s apples bobbing up and down. Is it? It can’t be. The sounds of Friday fun turn into whispers, and whispers turn to silence. Fear creeps up in your spine, something primal, something unexplainable.

He walks up to an empty table, heavy boots on sticky floor are the only sound now. The squeal of a chair, denim rubbing against the fake leather of the booth, fingers tapping on the tabletop, an impatient sigh. You move your feet from where they were rooted to the ground just a minute ago. Sweaty hands flipping paper on the notepad. You clear your throat before closing up the space between you and his table.

“What can I get you?”, your voice comes out raspy, almost scared. He looks up at you, a faint smile on his face, eyes not quite meeting yours. Instead, he looks at your lips, gaze burning on your skin, you press your lips together, as if you could hide them entirely. Your eyes flick over to the bar, searching for another pair of brown eyes, searching for comfort. But comfort is not what you find, Sam looks back at you with a wild gaze, almost panic in his eyes.

“Whiskey, neat,” the stranger says, now looking at his hands on the table.

“Coming right up!”, you answer with fake cheerfulness in your voice. Legs heavy as you move, “A whiskey, neat,” you say when you reach the bar, waiting for Sam to prepare the drink. You understand that the questions are not for now, the questions are for later. The people slowly turn their attention back to the drinks in front of them, conversations starting again. But still, the air stays as if it was frozen the minute the stranger came in, Friday never has been so quiet at Sam’s diner..

“There you go”, you say as you place the glass in front of him, voice heavy with the accent you thought you never had.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, not looking up at you this time.

Time feels slow, dragging on every minute, every second of the night. You cannot take being inside anymore. You feel like you are going to suffocate.

“I am going on my break,” you say quickly and don’t wait for anyone to acknowledge, just disappear through the kitchen. 

The muggy evening air hugs your skin as you open the back door of the diner. Being outside is just as suffocating as being inside, but at least it's quieter. You take a cigarette out from the crumpled package in your apron, place it between your lips but don't light it just yet. You should quit. You exhale sharply and put the cigarette back. Istead, you lean your head back to the wall, looking up at the moon. She's in her full glory tonight, casting pale light to the dark forest in front of you.

You are not sure what happened inside. This man who you are sure you have never seen in your life just woke up something deep inside you. You feel like you are drawn to him by a strange force, a force that is so foreign to you. There was a certain kind of sadness in his eyes that you only see when you look into the reflection of your own eyes. Grief. Lost. Denial. Something that balances between madness and sanity. 

You hear the front door open with a squeaking sound. Footsteps, drunk laughter and heavy drawls take over the silence of your break. You are about to go inside when you hear an intoxicated voice call out:

“Where do you think you’re goin´?” the drunk man shouts. “You think you can just walk in here and have a drink like the rest of us? Like you fuckin’ belong here.” he spits. The rest of the men stop talking. Now he is the only voice. “Let me tell you. You don´t. You should not come around anymore. You are not welcome here and you should know that.”

“So what happens if I do  come around?” the stranger's voice is laced with coldness. You slowly start walking to the front. You need to see him again. You need to understand what's happening. You feel yourself shaking, despite the warm humidity of the night. 'You should just stay out of it,' the voice in your head says, but you keep walking.

You peek around the corner of the diner. There he is with six men from the town. They all seem fairly drunk. They seem like they are looking for trouble.

“Well, if you are so fuckin´ sure you gonna come around,” he drawls “we might as well just give you a taste of what we are plannin´ to do with you. Right, boys?” he laughs and the men laugh with him, like a pack of coyotes. They all sound way too drunk to do any real harm, but there are six of them against him.

“Try me” the stranger grits through his teeth. He doesn't seem to be afraid, he seems like he would not care if he lives or dies. He seems like someone who gave up a long time ago.

“That ’s enough!” You shout and start walking up to the crowd. ”Go home or I will call Sam out and we will see who won’t be allowed to come around here anymore”. The loudest one flashes you a drunk grin and says: “That is just fuckin’ hilarious. You wanna protect him?” he asks.

“I am not protecting anyone, it’s my job to keep this place running. So I am doing just exactly that.” you say putting your hands on your waist. “Now, gentlemen, I would appreciate, if you all went home and cared about your wives and kids just as much as you care about your liquor. I reckon you had enough fun for tonight. Go! All of you!” you order them.

You are surprised to see that they do. It might be the mention of their wives and the reminder of how they would react if they saw them coming home drunk and all beaten up. The loudest one turns back for a second and addresses you. “You don’t know what you are doing.”

“I guess not.” you whisper and turn your head to the stranger.

“You didn't need to, darlin’. I can defend myself,” he says, drawl thick as the night above you. 

“Mhm, you seem like the type who can,” you say with a half smile. He laughs at that, but there is no humor in it. It should not be possible for a laugh to sound that sad.

“You new around here?”, he takes a step forward, cornering you to the wall. His eyes are searching for the name tag on your uniform. As he cannot find anything his eyes flick back to your face again. His gaze lights something up in you, deep inside your stomach. Frozen flames licking your insides. You are terrified of it, you are terrified of him.

“You can say that, moved back recently. And you? It seems like everyone knows you around here.” you say, heart pounding in your throat. 

“Wasn't hard to sense that, was it?”, you can feel his breath on your skin. Whiskey, burning on your cheeks.

“No,” you say, casting down your eyes. Somehow his proximity makes you restless. His presence makes the blood rush faster in your body. Your reaction is almost instinctual, you want to rip his flash and sink your teeth into him. To be closer or to get away. You are not sure.

He must sense it, a sly smile across his lips. He lifts his hand, hovers his knuckles over your cheeks tentatively. You are red burning fire. He brushes his knuckles over your left cheek, your chin, the curve of your neck. He rests his palm on your shoulder at last.

“You are shaking,” he murmurs. He takes his hand away. It's almost like you couldn't breathe while he touched you. Lungs filling up with air again. You lock eyes with him. “So what's your..,” he starts but cannot finish, Arlene opens the back door and calls your name. 

“Everything okay here?”, she asks.

His eyes darken. Amber turns black. “It's you,” he says, “I should have fuckin’ known.” One hand grabbing your hair, the other turning you around. Rough denim scratching the back of your thighs as he pushes you up to the wall. Head knocking on wood, you feel dizzy. You hear Arlene’s muffled scream, the door opening again. Cold steel pressed into your throat, you taste your death. “I couldn't have planned this better, could I?”, he whispers into your ear.

“Who the fuck are you? What do you want from me?”, you spit, fear blinding you as you try to grab a hold of him behind you.

“You don't know who I am? That's good. That´s just fuckin’ good”, he laughs, blood freezing in your veins from the sound of it.

You hear footsteps, Arlene’s breathy cry in the background. Boots then. Heavier than she could be. 

“Joel Miller,” Sam says with venom in his voice, “Leave her the fuck alone!”

His gun is pointing to Joel’s temple. Sam takes a step closer, “Get out of here. Right fuckin’ now.” Joel slowly releases the handful of hair he still has in his fist. As he does, a bitter smile spreads on his face.

“Another time then,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. He steps back, walks slowly to the parking lot where he swings his leg over a 1990 Harley-Davidson, the exact same model that is in your father's garage. 

You look at Sam, eyes blurred with tears and confusion.You are certain of one thing, and one thing only. Joel Miller wants to kill you.

—

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are much appreciated. Please let me know if you'd like to be on the tag list for the next parts!

[so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed]

2024 writing self evaluation

1. List of works published this year:

In order of posting, these are the 10 fics I published:

January: and right from the start

April: and so I have to say (before I go)

July: I'd rather you (hold me)

August: home with you

September: something told me it was you, 'til I let go of this moment, and in those rare moments, circling the truth October: on the threshold of eternity

November: I've drowned and dreamt this moment

I've published 74,813 words this year, and I have written 66,768 words this year.

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

That has to be my @onedirectionbigbang that I worked on with @whatagreatproblemtohave [who is my artist again for next year, I am so excited!!]. I really struggled with this fic but I managed to get it done and published, and the art is incredible.

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

Somehow also the same fic, just because it was a struggle to write and I'm still remembering that struggle too well to really reread the fic and be proud of it. But I'm sure that moment will come!

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

“I’m so sorry about your penis.”

Zayn regrets the words the moment they come out of his mouth and he makes a strangled noise, gulping down the one beer that he’s allowing himself to have, because they came in third for the team final and he’s supposed to celebrate. He’s told himself that he would approach Liam if he’d medaled, but even though the bronze is an amazing feat and he should be over the moon - nevermind that he will always nitpick and wonder why they hadn’t been able to clinch the gold instead - he just feels sad at the thought that Liam’s Olympic dream is over, just like that.

Liam raises an eyebrow, snorts into his own cup. “At least I made headlines,” he says, and Zayn lifts his head to look at him, because he sounds light but there’s pain in his eyes. “Pole vaulter’s Olympic dream shattered by his own penis.”

Zayn wants to giggle, not at the joke but because there’s something nervous bubbling up in his stomach that he can’t swallow down. He doesn’t think it will make Liam feel any better though. Might make him think he’s making fun of him, which is the last thing he wants. “It’s shit,” he offers, and Liam gives him a faint sort of smile.

“It is. I’m sure I’ll be able to laugh at it at some point, but-” he shrugs a shoulder, “it’s sort of humiliating, isn’t it? Aside from the fact that I literally cockblocked my chances of a medal, and it’s another four years until I can redeem myself, it’s also a pretty shitty feeling that everyone is talking about my penis.”

Zayn cringes. “I’m so sorry,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t gonna like, say it like that. I just-” he thinks of the bronze, of the applause and the way he’d felt this afternoon. Of how on top of the world he’d been, full of confidence for his individual events. “I know how much it sucks, and I just wanted to offer like, I don’t know.”

“Your condolences?”

Zayn hums. “You know I tore my ACL in my first Olympics. I mean, maybe you don’t know, you weren’t there in Rio. I just mean, I know what it’s like to have your dream within reach, and then it’s just taken away, because your body betrays you.”

Liam’s face softens, a slight dusting of rose on his cheeks. “Sorry,” he says quietly, “I shouldn’t have assumed that you meant to poke fun at me. No one even has, today. They’ve all been perfectly nice. So bloody nice that I can’t stand it, actually.”

“I could take you to see Louis,” Zayn suggests, and that prompts a laugh.

5. Share or describe a favorite review you received:

After October, when everything was dark, a few people reread one of my all time favourite fics. This review was left on it, and it hit me so incredibly hard, but it also reminds me why I will keep writing:

And I know what happened in October is so not the same thing as this story, but it felt so eerily close that I couldn’t help but sit in that dream where someone DID do something, and the 2024 imagined here turned out to be a bit closer to reality. Man, I don’t even know. For a few hours I got to believe that what was permanently destroyed could be rebuilt again. 

6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

Honestly, this entire year. I've had months where I wasn't able to write, which barely happened last year. I wrote 50,000 words less than last year, and in June/July my personal life kicked me in the balls so hard that I was just done. I really wanted to give up on writing, but @lululawrence convinced me to give wordplay one more go. Thank you my darling, I am so grateful.

Then, of course, we all know what happened in October. I texted a friend of mine about it, saying I wasn't sure I'd be able to write. Their response was something along the lines of, we weren't able to help him in real life, but we are able to give him happier lives and endings in our stories. It's what I intend to do.

7. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you:

I don't actually remember, but I do remember that I left some comments on my own docs that were essentially just '????' and 'I didn't plan this'.

8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

I think I mainly grew in my judgment of myself, in the sense that I didn't feel like I had to write when I truly wasn't able to. I put less pressure on myself this year, and though the amount of fics I published and the amount of hits/kudos/comments I received have definitely gotten less than last year (it's about 30% of last year), I've learned to care less about it. At the end of the day, I write for me, and I write for those few that take something from it, that might feel comforted by my words or that learn something from it about themselves.

9. How do you hope to grow next year:

At this point, I just hope to keep writing and keep enjoying writing.

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

In the past few weeks @evilovesyou has been invaluable, we've plotted out some fics together which has helped me a lot in being able to make the most of my limited writing time. @lululawrence, as I've said before, helped me to keep writing. And I would be remiss if I didn't mention my lovely @beardyboyzx who is the best sounding board ever.

11. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year:

I'm actually not entirely sure!

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

It's okay to take breaks. It's okay if writing is hard and it's not for you right now. While it can be a relaxing thing, something you do in your down time, it's still not the same as taking a break, and sometimes you just need time off from doing anything productive.

13. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

I'm currently working on my @zaynsalbumsficfest which is due far too soon. And I'm about 10k into my @onedirectionbigbang which I'm very excited about, because ya girl is back on her fantasy worlds kick!

14. Tag three writers whose answers you’d like to read. ;)

I love everyone who wants to do this, so please feel free to say that I've tagged you even if I haven't. But I will tag @reminiscingintherain @beardyboyzx @voulezloux and @lululawrence

[maarriiii]

Simp (Part 10) | Wilbur Soot

A/N: I really wanted to do a double update so that’s why i’ve been putting this off since I haven’t written the date part but i really don’t want to put this off any longer, so here you go lovely people!!

Summary: Countdown to you and Wilbur meeting and everything that happened in between

Pairing(s): CC!Wilbur Soot x gender neutral!reader, CC!Wilbur Soot x actor!reader

Warning(s): It’s pretty long guys. So, get comfortable

italics: tweets

my masterlist :))

~~

4 months before the show. This was it. The end. After two weeks of traveling multiple cities and countries for press tour, this premiere would be your last before heading back home to Los Angeles, free from any obligations. You smiled and waved to the blaring lights of cameras and shouts of your name, facing here and there as they asked. To your left and right were your costars and people that worked on the movie, director and producers. Some of them were accompanied by their partners or family members. Some were with their publicist and team, including you.

You caught the eyes of one of the family members—a mother to a particularly young actor—she was holding their hand, smiling but you could tell she was overwhelmed. You smiled and mouthed 'you're doing great'. At that her shoulders relaxed and she mouthed back 'thank you'. You gave her a wink before flashing your award winning smile back at the camera—seconds after the three of you posed together and clips of you comforting the mother went viral the next day.

By the time the walking and the posing was done, you were finally inside the theater where seats were filled with the cast, crew, critics, fans, and other people you might don't know. Companion of The West was met with pretty good reviews so far from all the early screenings, praising the writing, directing, the ensemble of cast, and your acting in the new genre. You rarely look up reviews but when it's good things you've been hearing, how can one resist—the movie might even get nominated in major categories in the upcoming awards season.

~~

"Thank you, Nottingham. You've been fucking amazing!"

The crowd cheered as Lovejoy walked backstage, adrenaline still coursing through their bodies and sweat pouring down on it. Wilbur dabbed a white towel on his face and neck, smiling and cheering with his bandmates for yet another good show on the tour. Although, he played shows before it still felt like the first time. He was on cloud nine and no anchor heavy enough could pull him down. He loves every second of every moment he get to play with his friends and hearing the crowds shout back the very lyrics he wrote.

Wilbur muttered a 'thanks' when his friends congratulate him for a great show, still wiping down the sweat trailing down his body like a flood. He took a few bottle of beers in his hand, gave it to Ash, Joe, and Mark, before gulping down his. The cold liquid managed to quench his thirst and after singing the last few songs.

Wilbur and the rest of the band and crew started packing up their instruments and gear after hydrating themselves and taking a few polaroid pictures backstage. They carried all the bags, cases, and whatnot to the van they've rented before driving back to the hotel they stayed in and going out for a few drinks before leaving Nottingham.

~~

2 months before the show. You did something incredibly embarrassing earlier that made you want to dig up a hole, crawl into it, and bury yourself for eternity in an attempt to conceal yourself from the internet. It was an accident. You tweeted something with the intention of putting it in your second and private account, where only your closest friends follows you, after seeing a picture of Wilbur on stage. The tweet itself might be classified as to what the internet calls a 'thirst tweet' and although you've denied it multiple times—when Sam called you out and tease you for it—the longer the notion swam inside your mind, the more convinced you were that they were right. And that just made it worse.

You were in the kitchen getting some snacks when the thought suddenly appeared in your head. Anxiety builds up inside you, fear and assurance trying to beat the other and take control. You fast walked to the living room where the TV was paused on a show and your phone lay on the couch. You hurriedly typed in the password, cursing when you got it wrong a couple of times. You mumbled words of encouragement to yourself, saying that you couldn't possibly do such a thing and that you were always careful. Spoiler alert, you were wrong.

Dread washes over you when you saw the tweet with already 500 likes and retweets. You knew it won't have any effect since your fans would definitely screenshot it and immortalize it for people to see and make articles about, but you still wanted to save yourself.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh god, you're lagging, really?" You pressed the screen with a little too much force trying to delete the tweet.

~~

It seemed to be an occurrence now that Wilbur always chokes—be it on water or even just air—at the sudden mention of your name. He was amused, honored, and embarrassed at his current predicament. How can he not? Ash was the first one who came across your tweet and decided to show it to everyone first then him. They were hollering, cheering, whistling, and Wilbur couldn't run and hide, so he just opted to curse everyone off but it prove useless since he had a smile on his lips.

when he's british and in a band 🤤🥰

If Wilbur was being honest seeing that kinda boosted his ego just a tad. He tried to find it later, when he was no longer in the bus and wasn't practically surrounded by everyone but all he could find was screenshot of it from both of your fans which led him to think that you probably didn't mean to post for your millions of followers. He kinda felt bad for you—lord knows he'd been embarrassed before—and there was a part of him that wanted to reach out to you but he thought of another way to try and comfort you or maybe even tease you.

He typed something in his phone and after a few words of encouragement before finally saying 'fuck it', Wilbur pressed the blue tweet button.

when you're british and in a band 😏

He'd definitely be hearing about this in the upcoming days. 

~~

2 weeks before the show Months went by quickly and before you know it, the Lovejoy show in Los Angeles was getting closer and closer. You and Wilbur were constantly communicating; phone calls, texts, video calls. You name it, both of you probably did it. He always told you how the shows went, where he and the rest of the band went to unwind and explore after the show. He would send you a picture of a film poster that had your face in it. He would tell you facts about the states he was in and you would find it endearing, adorable, and impressive how he knows all of that. You did the same to him. You told him about your days. You told him about future roles that you might want to audition for. You recommended places to visit if you've ever been where he was. It was beginning to be a part of your routine, listening and talking to Wilbur, and you love every minute of it.

This time it was no different. You were out and about, headphones plugged in your ear, Wilbur's voice drowning out all the other noises, while your sunglasses covered eyes scoured the storefronts decorated in mannequins.

"Oh, I'm just wandering around. Nothing exciting, really. I just--"

You saw two young women approached you, phone in their hand, a book and pen in the other. The nervous smiles and whispers shared amongst them was something you became accustomed to by now whenever people recognize you.

"y/n? Are you still there?" Wilbur asked, a slight worry in his voice at your sudden pause.

"Yeah, sorry, Wil. I'm fine. Could you just give me a second?"

"Yeah, of course."

You put your sunglasses over your head and flashed a friendly smile, trying to make them comfortable.

"Hey guys, how are you?"

"Hi, y/n. It's nice to meet you. We love your new movie."

"Aww. Thank you so much. I'm glad you like it. Do you want me to sign that?" You asked, pointing at the book.

"Yeah, and could we get a picture too if that's not too much?"

You nodded. "Yeah, of course. Not at all."

~~

On the other side of the line, Wilbur just sat and listened to your voice. You didn't mute the call and he was glad you didn't--not because he wanted to eavesdrop or anything like that. He just enjoyed hearing the sound of your voice. Everyday he just looks forward to it, hearing you say hello and his name coming out your lips. He dreads whenever you had to say goodbye or 'I have to go' and it took every will power inside of him to not just beg for you to stay for another second. He was absolutely and utterly smitten with you. 

"Are you going to the lovejoy show soon, y/n?" A distant voice asked.

At the mention of his band, Wilbur perked up.

"Yeah, I am." His heart fluttered at how excited you were. Damn you. "Are you guys too?"

"Yeah,  we came here to see them actually."

"Oh, that's awesome."

The two of you exchanged a few more words until a different voice spoke.

"I think you and Wilbur are really cute together."

You laughed, but it was quite awkward. He knew you didn't expect hearing that and neither did he.

"Are you guys dating?"

Wilbur cringed at the question and by now he knew you well enough that you probably did too. It's an awkward and quite frankly intrusive questions to ask someone but for some reason the questions lingered inside his mind. Are you dating? The two of you flirted at each other, more so him than you. You spent an ungodly amount of time talking to each other. Both of you knew about the other's feeling but, you never really said it out loud. It was just there, in the air--if he had to put it dramatically. He cursed at himself mentally before devising a plan, a mission. He was going to tell you, straight up. When he see you in two weeks, he would muster up all the courage in his 6'6 body and ask you out on a date.

"Tell them no and that you fucking hate my guts." Wilbur said to the phone.

He could tell you were smiling from how you sounded and during the entire encounter Wilbur's voice filled your ears, talking about things that made you want to laugh.

~~

The day of the show. A sudden gush of wind flew by and you shivered, tugging the jacket you wore closer. Sam stood beside you with a matching jacket--something that you didn't coordinate at all--with hand in his pocket and the other holding his phone. In front and behind you, people were waiting in line outside the venue Lovejoy will be playing at. A few people recognized the two of you, excited whispers shared amongst friends who no doubt were convinced that there's definitely something going on with you and Wilbur while others just didn't care at all which you were thankful for.

"Do you think I would make it here back in time if I went and grab us some food from that place we like?" Sam asked, a bored look on his face.

You gave him a look. "Did you not eat before?"

He shook his head nonchalantly.

"Dude, this is a--what, two hours show? Why didn't you eat before?"

"Cause I wasn't hungry before."

"Then, why didn't you get something on the way here?"

"Because-" Sam wrapped an arm around you and pulled you closer, lowering his voice. "-I want to make sure you get to meet your prince charming right on time."

You shrugged off his arm. "Shut up. Also, I don't mind if we're late just a little bit, you know."

"I know."

Suddenly, the line started to move and the crowd cheered, including you. With the supervision of a security guard at the door, everyone walked in an orderly fashion, and with every step you took, the anticipation grew inside you. Out of habit, you held onto Sam's arm. He knew you well enough to know what the action meant so, he just tapped your hand twice, a silent gesture to tell you that he was there.

~~

He couldn't believe his eyes. He couldn't believe his fucking eyes. There you were like you said you would. In the middle of crowd, bright and wide eyes, like something out of a movie. It was a cliche happening in real life, his life, and it was unexplainable what he felt. Your eyes was magnet, pulling his line of sight to you only. He could feel his cheeks stretched, smiling at the sight of your gorgeous face in the dim light. The guy next to you, who he thinks must be Sam, smirked at him and it made Wilbur hide his smile behind the microphone in front of him. He thought to himself if he noticed, did other people notice too? And to answer his own question, he looked to his left where Ash were and there was that smile, the smile that tease him on the van when he found your tweet. He looked to his right, at Joe, and he found him laughing.

Wilbur found the situation amusing and slightly embarrasing. God, he's so incredibly taken by you that he was making a fool himself. The show hasn't even started yet. They've yet to play the first song. How was he to get through the entire night? He would probably be a certified clown or joker by that point. He looked to you again, the smile that he saw never left your lips.

"Hello, Los Angeles! Thank you all for coming."

The crowd cheered including you. He swore he could you amongst the other voices.

"Thanks for having us here and hope you all enjoy the show."

Mark started them off and without a second to waste they played the first song of the night with Wilbur in a newfound spirit at the presence of you. 

~~

The night didn't end at the show for you. Not long after Lovejoy left the stage, your phone buzzed inside your pocket. A notification from Wilbur, telling you to stay and that someone will come and get you and Sam. After a long wait, since you had to wait until everyone left the venue, someone you least expected came. It was Wilbur himself. Your eyes grew wide at the sight of him. When he said someone will come and get you, you didn't realized it was going to be him. You knew he was tall but seeing him in real life, face to face, just made you realize how tall he actually was. You both stared at each other, smiling sheepishly. The moment both of you had been waiting for was there yet you could only stare into each other's eyes.

Wilbur spoke first. "Hey, y/n."

"Hi, Wil."

There was this awkward moment where one of you went for a handshake and the other for a hug before finally going for the latter. You had to stand on your tiptoes to wrapped your arms around his neck. When you felt his arms around your waist, butterflies burst inside you. You didn't understand how a single touch could make you feel this way, traveling all over your body. You gave the hug, Wilbur really, a squeeze despite the fact he had probably been sweating. If him just putting your arms around your waist made you feel things then him squeezing you back made your heart combust.

When Sam cleared his throat, the two of you pulled away like a pair of teenagers getting caught doing something. Your hands was on Wilbur's chest, albeit clenched, and Wilbur's had his still on your waist.

"Hey there, I'm Sam." He smiled, reaching out his hand.

Wilbur stumbled over his words, his hands left your waist when he realized it was still there. He shook Sam's hand. "Hi, sorry, I'm Wilbur, uh, Wil-" Wilbur shook his head. "-Anything works, really."

Sam nodded. "Congrats on the show."

"Thanks, man. I'm glad you enjoy it."

The two men let go of their hands and you hoped Sam doesn't do any passive-aggressive threatening on Wilbur like he did with people that have shown interest in you.

~~

"So, hi. Finally."

You giggled at Wilbur. You couldn't remember if you giggled this much when talking to someone that you like, when you were still with Alex. There's just something about Wilbur that made your cheeks hurt by smiling too wide and laughing to hard. The two of you were in a bar, along with Sam and the rest of the band, a place that you and Sam recommended. It was your hidden gem, a place to unwind without attracting any attention. The guys were in the booth, Sam fitting in well with the brits, discussing music or something else. You and Wilbur sat on the stools, intentionally distancing yourself away from your friends for a time alone.

"Hi, finally." You smiled. You realized you haven't stop smiling this whole night.

Wilbur ducked his head, smiling. "I'm sorry if I'm being weird. I just—I can't believe I'm here, with you. Seems unreal."

"I get what you mean. I keep imagining how seeing you would be like and now that I am, it still feels weird almost."

"Oh." He quirked up his brow, a teasing smile. "So, you've been imagining me?"

You felt the heat rose to your cheeks. Shit. "N–not like that."

"Like what then?"

"Stop it. You're messing with me."

Wilbur laughed and god you want to hear that for the rest of your life. "I'm sorry. You look very adorable when flustered."

You only laughed, looking at your hands since his eyes on you starting to become overwhelming. It wasn’t bad or uncomfortable by any means. It’s just that you don’t think someone has ever looked at you like that, with so much affection. “God, I think I’m gonna die of embarassement at this point.

He smiled, then the words left his lips. “Do you want to go on a date with me?”

Your body straightened, eyes wide. “What?”

“Go on a date with me. Tomorrow. Before I head back on tour.”

It felt like your brain was lagging. It took awhile for his proposition to sink into your head but when it did it you wanted nothing more than grab Sam by the shoulder, shook him, and scream ‘he’s asking me out on a date’. You didn’t any of that, of course—you were an adult—so, instead, you had the biggest smile on your face, eyes sparkling like a kid in a candy store.

“I would love to go on a date with you.”

Joe nudged Ash on his side, nodding towards the two of you smiling like idiots. Sam and Mark noticed as well and the group of men shared knowing looks amongst themselves. They talked about the two of you among other things, discussing on when Wilbur will finally ask you out. They didn’t have super hearing but just by the looks of him, they knew he did it and you said yes. Without any warning, Sam started clapping and cheering, surprising everyone.

“Finally. I thought the two of you are just gonna sit there and stare into each other’s eyes the entire night. You did ask them out, right, Wil?”

Wilbur nodded, smiling. “Yes, I did.”

“Sam!” You scolded him.

“What?” He shrugged.  “It’s true. They can vouch for me.”

The three of them nodded, followed by murmurs of yeah’s and definitely’.

You shook your head, before turning back around to Wilbur, face flushed.  

“At least I know that he approves of me.”

You spend the rest of the night smiling, laughing and drinking, exchanging stories with your new friends and Wilbur. When the night had to end and all of you had to leave, you wrapped your arms around Wilbur’s neck. He leaned down a little to make it easier for you and wrapped his arms around your torso. You whispered how much you enjoy the night and the show, he whispered the same. When you pulled away from his warm embrace, a task proven difficult to do, you planted a kiss on his cheek. He was surprised to say the least. The action, albeit small, left him speechless. The feeling of your lips on his skin almost send him into an overdrive. He was sure the pounding he heard in his eardrums was the sound of his heartbeat beating rapidly. When you said goodbye all he could muster up was a weak wave and a lovestruck smile. All he could think about was how he couldn’t wait to see you again tomorrow.  

~~

taglist: @ella-fella-bo-bella @lillylvjy @jadeissues

Send me an ask, message me, or just comment if you want to be added to my taglist 💕

[lasudio]

VeronaHills, Round Nine: McGreggor

The lad's mind was wandering as he stood at the market counter.

Leod could see it as he was tending to a customer wearing a zebra print-wrapped highlighter yellow hat (who later turned out to be a secret shopper for a review website, engaging in a bit of refuge in audacity). When the hat happily left the barn with a charming hen coinbox as a gift for his nan, Leod turned to his favourite ginger.

"So you're doing it then?" he gently enquired.

Jonah nodded. "Tonight," he replied. "Hey, could you - help me pick what to wear?"

The lad was nervous. Leod could hear it in the softness of his voice barely making a dent in the spring breeze; he knew that love alone didn't guarantee a positive reception to a ring offered on one knee. If the look that crossed Cyd's face all that time ago came to Jonah as he looked up at his love... well, Leod wouldn't forgive himself if he didn't do all he could to support his friend.

After the market was packed down, Leod brought a beer up to Jonah's room and appraised his outfit choice.

"Lad, I know you're a bit of a goth, but for a proposal?!"

The faux outrage in his banter drew a laugh from Jonah. "You know Hermia's a 'bit of a goth' too, right? Okay, old man, I'll do a blazer."

It was a good thing he did. Leod made himself scarce from the farmhouse - Jonah told him his plan to lead Hermia to the scarecrow by candlelight - and her ecstatic "yes" made Jonah grin as he later recounted the moment. However, neither realised the presence of the eternally frowning older brother Tybalt Capp would be a factor.

A farmhand proposing to a Capp must have been particularly audacious for the self-appointed bodyguard to show.

[deadcactuswalking]

REVIEWING THE CHARTS: 16/03/2024 (Ariana Grande's eternal sunshine, 4batz/Drake)

For a fourth week, Beyoncé holds the throne on the UK Singles Chart with “TEXAS HOLD ‘EM”. Outside of that, it’s Ariana Grande week, so welcome back to REVIEWING THE CHARTS!

Rundown

Before we get to Ari or, well, anything else, we always start with our notable dropouts, those being songs dropping out of the UK Top 75, which is what I cover, after five weeks in the region or a peak in the more prestigious top 40. This week in particular, we bid adieu to: “Overcompensate” by twenty one pilots (not a surprise there, it seems like a pretty inaccessible lead single), “Forever” by Noah Kahan, “On My Love” by Zara Larsson and David Guetta, “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman, “Perfect (Exceeder)” by Mason and Princess Superstar and finally, “Popular” by The Weeknd, Playboi Carti and Madonna.

As for our re-entries and gains, God, it was a big day for those this week, especially given not much else was going on between the top 20 and well, everything else. Mitski’s “My Love Mine All Mine” is back at #75, “Make You Mine” by Madison Beer is back at #53 (great!) and two well-deserved awards show boosts are present here - Jungle, the BRIT Awards’ Best British Group, re-enter at #43 with the incredible “Back on 74” and thanks to Billie Eilish getting her Oscar win for Best Original Song, the equally incredible “What Was I Made For?” zooms back at #16. It’s pretty impressive that there are four re-entries here, all in vastly different spaces of the chart, and they’re all fantastic. As for the gains, we see a lot, scouring pretty much all of the chart, so let’s any% speedrun this section: “Thank You (Not So Bad)” by FBI’s top six most wanted criminals at #68, “Anti-Hero” by Taylor Swift at #65, “Happier” by The Blessed Madonna and Clementine Douglas at #61 and okay, break - that song apparently samples “Du hast” by Rammstein, which I just didn’t hear last week when it debuted. Despite being a classic on rock radio all over Europe, the song never charted in the UK’s top 100, and I always preferred “Sonne”. Now back to the list: “Would You (go to bed with me?)” by Campbell and Alcemist at #60, “ONE CALL” by Rich Amiri at #59, freaking “Baby Shark” at #57, “I Remember Everything” by Zach Bryan featuring Kacey Musgraves at #55, “Green & Gold” by Rudimental and Skepsis featuring Charlotte Plank and Riko Dan at #54 (not really excited for how a trend of the 2020s is having so many artists credited), “FE!N” by Travis Scott featuring Playboi Carti at #41, “Evergreen” by Richy Mitch & the Coal Miners at #37, “Austin” by Dasha at #25, “Kitchen Stove” by Pozer at #22, and finally, thanks to the release of her album, “yes, and?” by Ariana Grande rebounds to #6, just outside the range for our next segment.

Now for our top five, starting with “Lose Control” by Teddy Swims at #5, “End of Beginning” by Djo at #4, and Ariana Grande landing her second top 10 hit in this week, the clunkily two-titled “we can’t be friends (wait for your love)” at #3. Obviously, there’s more on that later. As for the rest, it’s to be expected: Beyoncé leads and the pack and Benson Boone’s “Beautiful Things” isn’t far behind at #2. Now for… less beautiful things, let’s dissect some of the new entries we have here.

New Entries

#71 - “if u think i’m pretty” - Artemas

Produced by Artemas and Daintree

Alright, I’ll bite: who the Hell are Artemas? Or Daintree for that matter? Well, Artemas Diamandis is a budding singer-songwriter with a questionable moustache who’s popular on social media, with this being a breakout hit from October last year, though it now of course has slowed and sped-up versions because the world is not safe from TikTok’s impact on popular music. Daintree seems to be Artemas’ go-to producer, and the two wrote this alt-pop song about a toxic relationship where to put it bluntly, he needs to pick up his standards. There’s a unique androgyny to Mr. Diamandis’ voice and it actually meshes very well - at least his falsetto does - into the vaguely eerie synth distortion and haunting elements very fitting for a song released in late October. I think the effects end up a bit overdone sometimes, attempting to make up for an underwritten song, and I really don’t like how the snare sounds, even if the constantly repeating vocal chop, and the way the lead vocal melody ends up stuck in a jam with it, is really clever, there was a lot of effort put into the song’s sound design, it just doesn’t really translate into a full song for me, especially at barely two minutes. Cool ideas are definitely here though.

#70 - “Uh Uh” - Clavish and Fredo

Produced by KP Beatz

We don’t have many other new names here: Clavish, Fredo, Nathan Dawe - they’re staples of UK chart weeks in the 2020s - and Drake and Ari are inescapable, so this’ll be a pretty familiar episode I feel, which is kind of refreshing. I mean, I’ve been listening to ratrace90210 and Yeat and Butterfly Boy, there’s something relaxing about knowing partly what you’ll have to say about something going into it. With that said, even I was surprised with how cheap and basic the piano and flute sounds in this beat were, the piano in particular really sticks out and unintentionally sounds off-beat due to just how basic the loop is. I would prefer for more layers of the RPG-sounding flute, but once the trap beat comes in, it’s easy to ignore some of the lacking melodies, it goes pretty hard and has much more of a pace than Clavish’s usual output. He’s definitely improving as a rapper too, the sheer length that he goes on for considering the wordy flow and delivery he chooses is kind of impressive and there are some interesting lines, particularly when he… denies living the life in his raps which is just surprising if anything. The way the “uh-uh” ad-lib is implemented sounds a bit tacky sometimes but given the rhyme scheme often delivers a similar sound, it can be pretty seamless sometimes as a call-and-response, it’s just a shame that Clavish doesn’t have the personality to sell it more. Fredo does though and this is an incredible verse from him. His cold rhetorical questions, much more developed rhyme schemes than Clavish, and how much more command he has of his flow despite using a similar one to his fellow rapper and even taking time to be further off of the beat… it really shows who’s been in the game for longer. “I hit any girl I want like a woman beater” is a crazy bar though, I have no idea how to feel about that, and he doesn’t really give you the time to think about it.

#66 - “We Ain’t Here for Long” - Nathan Dawe

Produced by Nathan Dawe, Neave Applebaum and Punctual

Nathan Dawe and its three ghost producers are back in the top 75 with a song I… already had liked? Yeah, this song is from early February, and I don’t know in what context I heard it but I should say that this is, for Dawe’s standard, a pretty great track. The singer is Sam Harper, a songwriter who’s worked with… BTS? Damn, well, okay, make that bank, girl, you can probably live off of that and don’t need to take credit for the heavily filtered vocals here that stand out in a mix that feels a bit barebones: it has the boiled-down essentials of a modern Eurodance jam but not much more, and that really picks up the pace in an “end-of-the-world” kind of way. She sings that she’s barely holding on and she’s got to live her life before it’s gone, with every element of this song feeling like it wants to just make way with itself and flee, and that’s definitely a compliment in this case, there’s a certain frantic sense to how the ATB-esque acoustic guitar drop is placed into staccato formation like old video game music. With how much the song wants to be done, you’d think it’d peter out by two minute, but no, we get that fizzling and striking bridge where Harper laments how much she’s doing for other people just to feel empty in return. We immediately get back to dancing of course, but after that resonant bridge, it hits way harder than it did before, with both Harper and Dawe adding little tricks into the final chorus, whether that be a change in the inflection, an added refrain of “I gotta live my life” or a flashy pre-drop glitch. It’s all very obsessed with desperately wanting to stop existing and for a trance song in an ever-increasing dystopia of how we live now, this feels particularly relevant… and it would be pretty poetic for the UK in particular to make this a hit in 2024. And please do, it’s great.

#18 - “act ii: date @ 8” - 4batz featuring Drake

Produced by Untitled Beatz and 40

Okay, firstly: Official Charts Company finally correctly recognises a remix’s popularity and credits accordingly. Nice. Secondly… sigh. So I gave a lukewarm review to Bryson Tiller’s “Whatever She Wants” on its debut week but pretty much immediately, I’m talking the day after, it clicked with me and I’ve been slightly obsessed with it. It actually has me excited for how rappers, singers, rap-singers and sing-rappers are going to implement non-Atlanta trap elements into R&B and vice versa as we get more diversive rap landscape with hyphy, Detroit trap, drill, Jersey club, dembow, Afrobeats and more competing for further influence in mainstream rap. Tiller and the beat both chug at a constant level and only stop to murmur tensely before piling right back into action. The beat sounds like if Rick Ross was on a treadmill and instead of really trying to sing, Mr. Tiller just tries to keep up, even if it leads to him doing brief harmonic riffs and pausing for sound effects. The original “act ii: date @ 8” by 4batz, which lands on its chorus by accident, has a similar appeal in its vintage shimmering keys and more organic-sounding bass, though I hadn’t heard it before the Drake remix. 4batz goes for an adolescent delivery that makes its determined, one-minute-and-done young love feel even more weightless and fluttery. I wish it didn’t go for the cop-out not-really-all-that-chopped and only-technically-screwed outro of course, but otherwise, it’s pretty decent and oh, the big-name remix essentially plays the song unchanged and then has Drake rap over that exhausted, slowed-down version. The youthful, Hell, maybe even childlike, lovestruck song empowered by its brevity is extended to a lethargic nearly four minute track, the majority of which consists of what sounds like a reject from not even For All the Dogs, more like Certified Lover Boy. There’s an oddly homoerotic passage in the middle, then he interpolates the original just to rhyme it with “I’m a stand-up guy like Dave Chappelle”. Sure. If this helps a newer and more interesting R&B artist to launch a career, it’ll be a net positive, but this version is a butchering of the original’s spirit in my opinion.

#13 - “bye” - Ariana Grande

Produced by Ariana Grande, Max Martin and ILYA

Okay, let’s get this out of the way: I liked two tracks off of Ari’s #1 album eternal sunshine: “the boy is mine” and “I wish I hated you”. Like always, her intro was pretty sweet too. I have vaguely more long-form first impressions on RateYourMusic, but I’m mostly just turned off by the nothingness the album presents: a trendy, vaguely pleasant pop-R&B album for sure, but not one that takes many risks - which Ariana can do - or makes use of its more cinematic production to help the songs get any stickier. Sometimes she sticks the landing, but mostly I did not care for it and couldn’t get myself immersed. Yet I’ve been listening to abstract cloud rap, underground plunderphonics of both the folkish ambiance nature and layered nu-disco instrumentation, and primarily, nu metal, so take all of that with a grain of salt. Like I said about 4bats, sometimes I’m not sure why I still write this show. With that said, there’s a lot less I have to say about these Ariana songs than I think I’d have wanted to. This one, strikingly, has had Ariana speak on it being too emotional and her not wanting to erase ALL of the humanity from it. Huh. That’s definitely reflected in the rote disco groove and oddly fuzzy bass which does add some texture but doesn’t make the lead vocal melody in the chorus any less… obvious. In fact, that’s really my main problem with this record: it’s obvious. The pre-chorus sounds genuinely brilliant, this is a gorgeous vocal performance from Ari and that swell is fantastic, but it ends up going for a kiss-off that’s undetailed and non-specific outside of name-dropping her friend Courtney… who the fuck is Courtney? The whole album’s vulnerable but never in a way that fully immersed me, it feels a bit closed-off not in an aggressive way but in a “the bridge over the moat has yet to be lowered kind of way”. Drake’s whole passage about his three different Jasons in “Away from Home” accurately displays my emotional connection with eternal sunshine but the difference here is that Drake very much knows that you don’t know who these people or events are and plays into that to construct his narratives. These Ariana Grande songs just feel oddly distant, and for a triumphant dance-pop song, I want to be IN the moment, not a peasant looking up at a celebration in the tower. Just saying.

#3 - “we can’t be friends (wait for your love)” - Ariana Grande

Produced by Ariana Grande, Max Martin and ILYA

More than half of our debuts this week are in lowercase, I guess this really is a muted week. Speaking of muted, this was oddly a bit of a sleeper hit within the week, having its music video and SNL performance give a lukewarm first day room to breathe and a bit of a boost for the whole album but especially this… and it’s a blocky synthpop pastiche, and I MEAN blocky. One of my least favourite tracks on the album and really one of Ari’s worst ever in my opinion, this goes for the one thing I don’t think she could ever sell: a discussion of Ariana’s relationship with the media, doubling as a relationship story. You can see similar interpretations of thank u, next but even if I don’t like that record, I will give it props for its depths and honestly, its stakes and the tragedy that surrounds that album and its predecessor. This track though... what informed this? What informed the backlash-to-the-backlash towards critics in the chorus? What informed the tumultuous nature of Ariana’s pop culture ups and downs this time? What informed the grotesquely unwarranted orchestral outro? Oh, right, nothing to care about. I used to be a Kanye fan, artful self-indulgence is not something I’m opposed to - Hell, go for it and more - but when the writing is purposefully secretive and vague, the lead vocal melodies are so staccato that Ari has to push character out of them through just her inherent personality, which itself is a fragile beast and most importantly, it sounds a cloudy fuzz of parodic ass with conveyor-belt synths standing sore in the mix… I’m left questioning why I should allow myself to give it my time. Given that ending line of the second verse, it also makes me wonder if Ms. Grande even wants me to. Hard pass on this - “the boy is mine” was right there as a single, this feels like an easy cop-out for an album that had a shaky first week.

Conclusion

Yes, Ari gets Worst of the Week for “we can’t be friends (wait for your love)”, as much as I wish she didn’t, with a Dishonourable Mention to… Drake. Drake gets the Dishonourable Mention for ruining a promising song in “act ii: date @ 8” by 4batz. As for the best, it should be an obvious lock for Nathan Dawe with “We Ain’t Here for Long”, as Artemas taking an Honourable Mention for “if u think i’m pretty”, I could see some better songs coming from this guy if we give him more than one chance at a hit. I don’t envision much of intrigue in the coming week, but regardless, thank you for reading, rest in peace to Eric Carmen, and I’ll see you next week!

[thewestern]

Chapter 1

A brewery is a fine enough place for a funeral, parking dependent. (There’s this paradox when it comes to car parks, part of an unpublished theory of urban planning — Yogi’s Law of Multimodalism, you could call it — that any place with enough spaces isn’t worth going to from the first. Take the Law piece, however, with a big hunk of rock salt. SInce, again, it hasn’t been subjected to rigorous peer review, double-blind, dry-hopped or nothing.) Tables and chairs are already all set out, with plenty of room to free associate in participation of grief, drifting through the space between It and Nothing. (A space perpendicular to that between Scarlet and Fire … or tangential, dependent on the intra-dimensional plane and/or wavelength upon which you happen to be riding.) Refreshments are on tap and ready to roll. Although one would wisely consider the special occasion to bend company policy banning outside beverages; maybe stock a cooler or a bucket (but, like, a clean one) or something with alternatives, alcoholic and non. Surely not all bereaved are beer drinkers. 

(Baby, I am tonight.) 

Yes, a brewery would do well to host a sending-off for a man of beer such as he. Better still, we could call it a wake, for him the seldom only child of an Irish Catholic family. Alas, in place of a wake or a funeral or even a damned memorial service, the electronic invitations for this considerably half-assed remembrance e-vited its guests to join in fond memory of our beloved Henry O’Sullivan for: A Celebration Of Life. A No More Birthdays Party, by any other name. All this mattered because the departed, or absent, as the case may have been — Hank, as he was known in life — was not dead, legally speaking. Rather, he was only presumed to be so, a distinction to which certain parties were more sensitive than others.  

(National standards dictate that a person must be missing for seven years before he is declared Legally Dead. This according to the online article, How to Have a Missing Person Declared Dead, published by the free legal information website, Legal Beagle dot Com. [Disclaimer: Legal Beagle does not provide legal advice.] This seven year-rule would apply to Hank, although his situation is unique since he was last seen among the living on federal land. Otherwise, Presumption of Death would thusly fall under the jurisprudences of the individual states. Some of whom honor the seven-year rule, whereas others including Alaska, Florida and Maine are content to Call It a Day at five years, perhaps because they’re way out on the corners and there’s just too much ground to cover. A person can also be issued his or her death certificate in the event that he or she has been exposed to what is deemed to be Imminent Peril. In such cases, the court can reasonably assume that death has occurred, regardless of whether the state-mandated waiting period has elapsed. A good example would be the movie Cast Away, wherein Tom Hanks’s character is plane-wrecked on a deserted island. Another would be the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. 

[Additional notable cases of people being declared dead in absentia are: Amelia Earhart, Michael Rockefeller, Jimmy Hoffa, Natalee Holloway and countless more.]  

But that’s not what we’re talking about here, is it? 

Hey, speaking of, is this an uniquely American tendency? This sort of Weirdness about Death, to the extent of outright refusal to acknowledge, even when it’s only just more than likely to have occurred? Is it a shortcut around a more proper reckoning? Our own cure for dying, perhaps, pending FDA approval? Okay. Settle down … this isn’t like a thesis statement or anything. Not for nuthin’ though, but the Irish didn’t call it a Wake because they were afraid of eternal sleep, necessarily. During their enduring of the various plagues and famines that which afflicted them — potato and otherwise, etc. — lads and lasses were dropping dead with such a frequency — so — that grievers were getting a wee bit too trigger-happy. They’d come upon a body laying there in an apparently catatonic state and immediately start in with the wailing and the crying and the carrying on. Before you know it they’d have the hole dug and all of a sudden the body would rise up out of the coffin, not unlike the Undertaker on Monday Night Raw. Because Shaun wasn’t dead then, was he? He was just snoozing off a raw fecking hangover, ya doom foocks, you. So that’s why they started having these wakes, see. Not only as a right fine excuse to have a craic, but also in case the deceased party might Wake tf Up, revealing him or herself to be not so deceased after all.  

Maybe it’s because we as Americans haven’t had any proprietary plagues or famines (Spanish Flu was an import), nor the cool pagan traditions that come along with them. Native Americans, notwithstanding. With all the endemic suffering inflicted upon those poor sumbitches, it stands to reason they had some sweet-ass death customs. Some southwestern tribes … — the Navajos, maybe — they didn’t just burn the dead, they burnt up all his stuff with him. And if it was you died peacefully in your teepee or your hogan, well then they’d burn your fucking house down too, homes. (Solves the many inherent problems of inheritance tax. And, the dead man’s children and his surviving wives won’t be left to squabble over who gets the finest buckskins or the good turquoise.) Didn’t matter if your people still lived there, because they were going to pack up their shit and move irregardless. To get away from your ghost, of course. Now one could interpret these precautions as being taken out of fear of death or dying, but one would be wrong. It was simply that these Navajo or Apache or whoever believed that the dead would resent the living, which why wouldn’t they? 

As with most celebrations, the Mexicans do it right. Referring of course to the Day of the Dead. El Dia de Los Muertos in Espagnolo. There isn’t much to say on that subject that hasn’t been already, except to reiterate that it is the coolest holiday going. The Gringo excuse for an equivalent — Halloween — by comparison, sucks grande ass. Okay … for kids, it’s Fine. Have your little fun. Watch out for razor blades in the apples. (Children are notoriously careless.) However, if you’re an adult that looks forward every year to Halloween … Like if you plan elaborate group costumes and put out hundreds of dollars worth of lawn decorations … paper ghosts, plastic skeletons, styrofoam tombstones … seriously, kill yourself. Those people should be put on a list.)      

Since Hank’d been gone, winter's snow had fell and melted. So coming up on a year now it was. Around about that time he went missing, he had been allocating increasing less Bandwidth on the company Day-To-Day, with a leery eye toward retirement. In those days, it wasn’t unusual for him to abscond on one of his solo outdoor excursions without leaving so much as a note. Heaven forbid he set up an out-of-office message on his email (HankMail at HotMail dot com), for which he had notoriously little time any which way. 

So, when no one heard word or saw him puttering around for a week or two, they paid it no mind. It wasn’t until a deputy ranger at Big Monument National Park clocked his new luxury sport utility wagon as Unattended in the far northeast corner of the trailhead parking lot that any suspicion was raised whatsoever. As per protocol, only after the vehicle’s registered owner — as identified by his vanity plate, ALTH3A — could not be reached via the telephone number listed on his corresponding parks pass, was his designated emergency contact notified. 

###

I fucking knew it, the Mick exclaimed aloud to a befuddled administrator of the parks service. Maybe a month or so prior, he had been riding shotgun in his then-fiance’s station wagon, which was neither new nor sporty. It sure as shit weren’t luxurious, but it was Swedish, and that’s not nothing. (It bears noting that Hank was no car snob. Quite the contrary. His previous mount, a late-Century Japanese offering, had been held together for decades by duct tape and the determined spirit of will. Ride her till she bucks ya, he always used to say. Which he did, until it did, in the middle third lane of the freeway at rush hour. [He donated its vehicular husk to the local public television station and wrote it off on his taxes.] After a brief period of mourning, he bought this new driving machine from Deutschland. [He would have gotten the hybrid but it didn’t have four-wheel drive.] Yes, it was more than a little bit ostentatious, he’d have allowed. For a fact, his head brewer, Russ, who you’ll meet, had made many-a-joke about the owners of this exact make of automobile, stereotyping them to be a bunch of assholes. [Q: What is the difference between a [REDACTED AUTO BRAND] and a porcupine? A: A porcupine has pricks on the outside.] And Hank’d laughed at every last one. But, Russ was dead, god rest his soul. [Hank donated what remained of the previous car to public television, of which Russ also disapproved. Brazen waste of taxpayer money. I’d have just as soon pledge drove it off a cliff.] And what was he supposed to do? Get some beater? For what … to keep up appearances? Wasn’t there something subtly snobby about intentionally driving something below your station? You know those billionaires who get labeled as quirky or eccentric for being moderately frugal in some aspect of their private lives. Like, oh, did you know so-and-so business tycoon likes fast food? … The implication being that they could be licking three square meals a day of caviar sushi rolls off some underwear model’s taint, but hey, I heard they mix in the occasional Filet-‘O-Fish, so maybe they ain’t so bad after all? Robber barons, they’re just like us. Get bent. That was how he justified it.) On this day it was also covered in dirt, as it had been for three weeks since Mick got it washed on the morning of an unseasonably early afternoon snow shower. Kitty had drawn a smiley face with her finger on the rear windshield. Public radio was airing an interview with the author of some new work of nonfiction. It concerned the phenomena of mysterious disappearances within our national parks. Mick couldn’t recall specifics, except that the amount of gone-missing persons was peculiarly high — like, staggeringly so — and that the interviewer had one of those nasally, public radio voices. One day that’s gonna be Hank, you know, he muttered under his coffee breath. She scolded him for saying so.

(The Mick waited until they got home to resume the argument. He and Kitty had a strict no-fighting policy in the car, in case it came to that. 

I’m just saying, he said, if he keeps sneaking off like that without telling nobody, then he’s fucking asking for it. You remember that fucking guy who got his arm stuck under a rock? Had to amputate it himself with a fucking pocket knife, didn’t he? And that was after he sat there for a week drinking his own urine. Down Syndrome Sysiphis. That’ll be Hank. One armed. Belly full of piss.)   

He couldn’t enjoy being right for long, as ever thus began the tedious business of managing the affairs of the dead, er missing. For the meantime, they were kept abreast of the official investigation, though it yielded scant physical evidence. Only the overhead security footage of him passing through the gate kiosk, alone, in the pre-dawn hours of a dew-swept middle autumn ‘morn. That single entrance provided trailhead access to thousands of acres of wilderness, somewhere upon which he vanished without a fucking trace. 

Lifelong a bachelor, born of long-deceased parents, Hank had no next of kin to preside over his Estate, if you could call it that. The farmhouse was really his only worthwhile asset, and that was tied up in the business anyways, on account of some acrobatic accounting to save the brewery from one of its several bouts with impending financial doom. So, as the longest-tenured employee and now largest present shareholder — Hank had bought out his few friends and family investors to implement an employee stock ownership plan that vested based on time served at The Company — David Michael Solomon, known alias The Mick, an old man of twenty-eight, had now completed his ascent from Keg Washer to Master Brewer to Acting Chairman of the New Frontier Brewing Company.

Congratulations, you dumb bitch.  

###

Happy Trails, Hank, read the chalkboard sign in a lasso-styled script, erected on the sidewalk beneath the forest green canopy awning. (Those who must not have known Hank, nor his macabre sense of humor very well, found the wordplay to be in poor taste.) An Indian Summer was at last ended, but most arriving guests went without a jacket if they could stand to, shuffling out of the bright, crisp Autumn air, into the dark, cozy brewpub. Before settling in, they were to be processed through a make-shift check-in by Zeke, formerly the keg washing mentee to the Mick, an apprenticeship from which he had washed out somewhat unceremoniously. Luckily for Zeke, everybody had enjoyed having him around. Even the Mick liked him fine enough, despite not outwardly displaying a particular congeniality toward any one colleague, not the least he who couldn’t handle a garden hose. 

So, Zeke was now himself ascendant, upwardly failing to the newly-minted position of Social Media Manager-slash-Events Coordinator. As per his malleable scope of work, in addition to managing the brewery’s nascent online presence — he felt especially unqualified for this part of the job, finding the Internet to be a gravely intimidating place — Zeke coordinated pre-arranged parties of ten-or-more persons. One such previous group, a fly fishing club that gathered together the first Tuesday of each month to commune in the tying flies, had left behind a fold-up card table, whereupon Zeke had fanned out five-by-eight photos he’d had printed on medium stock. Pixelated portraits of Hank, whom he’d never met, above the epitaph, What a Long Strange Trip It’s Been, alongside a stack of adhesive nametags and a half-pint glass full of red, black and blue permanent markers. 

Thrilled though he was to be promoted in title — with regard to compensation, this was a lateral move — Zeke could have never anticipated that one of the first events he would coordinate on behalf of the brewery would be one commemorating the disappearance and presumed death of its co-founder and patriarch, spiritually speaking. Certainly this was more responsibility than he bargained for. That being said, Zeke did take some solace that all things being equal, Hank’s body had not been recovered. Now before you judge him, like you never had mixed emotions about somebody dying, he had legitimate reason to feel relieved. One late night, well before Zeke began his short keg washing tenure at the Newfy, maybe even around about before he was born, Hank and a lady patron were deep in conversation at a high top between the bar and the back wall, when the subject banked a sharp left turn, careening off the guard rail into the ravine of morose. How would you wish your mortal remains to be disposed of, was the question. Back then there was still some novelty to the concept of cremation, which hadn’t yet established itself as really the only sustainable option. Whereas his companion was leaning toward burial in a family plot at a reputable cemetery, Hank was adamant about his ambition for to Make An Entrance into the afterlife. He would be bungee corded to his favorite kayak, marinated in kerosine or some other readily onhand accelerant, pushed away from shore a safe distance, and ignited by an archer’s flaming arrow. To prove how deadly serious he was about his Death Plan (have you made yours?), Hank got up and grabbed the genuine longbow off the wall (in specificity it was a dog soldier thunder bow, with the lance affixed to one end), before committing it all to writing on a cocktail napkin: In the event of my death, I, John Hiram W. O'Sullivan, wished to be bungee-corded to my kayak, marinated in kerosine or some other … and so on and so on. 

He never spoke another word of the conversation, if he even remembered having it in the first place, but that contractually-binding napkin remained thumb-tacked to the bulletin board above the cash register for all days. Zeke had seen it just this morning when he was rummaging around for those felt pens. It was the closest Hank’d come to leaving to his last will and testament, and likely also the closest to contemplating his own mortality, at least on paper (napkin). Sometimes it is too late, it just goes to show. The Mick had heard tell how that woman ended up gone too soon her own self. Carbon monoxide leak in her condominium was what done her. The silent killer.  

Suffice it to say then, Zeke was mighty glad at the present moment to not be planning a Viking funeral. Where ever would he find a competent archer on such short notice? Would the burning chemicals from the kayak’s plastic hull pollute the water? Was odor a concern? Could he tastefully promote this pagan death rite via social media without upsetting the brewery’s several hundred followers or the Norse gods? These are the questions he was paid quite modestly to answer in his capacity as Social Media Manager-slash-Events Coordinator, he thought to himself, as he filled a large bucket with ice and fizzy waters. 

Zeke wore a button-down, short-sleeved work shirt with the brewery’s logo sewn onto the left breast, over his heart, opposite the mechanic’s-style embroidered name badge, with the ever elusive cursive Z. (The brewery’s insignia, as Hank insisted on calling it was an homage to the mission patch of the Gemini V: the NFBC name in red letters encircling a covered wagon, connoting the latter crew’s pioneering effort in long-duration space flight, and thus the former’s in small batch beer making.) It was the only collared shirt he owned currently which fit him. All of his prior church shirts had been hand-me-downs from his father, uncles and older brothers, whom he’d all since outgrown. He wore it proudly and without pretense, to this sort-of funeral, as he had to a wedding at this very same venue the summer previous.  

A local bluegrass quartet of some repute — associates of Hank’s — had volunteered their services to play a short set of his favorites. (Said band had come closest to registering an alternative chart hit with their cover of Gin & Juice, the stone-cold gangster rap classic by Snoop Dogg. The song’s genre-bending novelty constituted somewhat of a viral moment of the pre-Internet Era. At every gig they played henceforth [including this one], a drunk frat bro-type could be reliably heard hollering out its request, presumably so that he could slur along and gleefully recite the N-word without repercussion. They closed every set with it [including this one], and it reliably brought the mother funkin’ house down.) Set up in a straight line along the back, perpendicular to the shotgun bar, the band opened with their level best attempt at a funeral march: a slightly uptempo cover of Morning Dew, as made famous by the Grateful Dead. Of course, Hank’d never married, but he’d been on record that if any gal ever had the sand to make an honest man out of him, he’d have insisted that their first dance as husband and wife step to that tune. (Hypothetically had she rebuked, he would have begrudgingly accepted the murder ballad Peggy-O as a compromise. He’d draw the line however at They Love Each Other. Good song … he’d grant you. Bit on the nose is all.)

In some ways, he was just like Jerry. An old folkie at heart. 

I thought I heard a young man mourn this morning

I thought I heard a young man mourn today 

I thought I heard a young man mourn this morning

I can’t walk you out in the morning dew today 

[Dobro break]

(A female fellow Deadhead once asked Hank how come his big green eyes lit up whenever they started in on a Garcia-Hunter ballad, such as Stella Blue or Row Jimmy, but then he wasn’t much for dancing along with any of Bobby’s uptempo cowboy songs or big band boppers. [A question posed after a rollicking, forty-minute rendition of Playin’, during which Hank excused himself to use the facilities, that were a Port-a-John.] If she didn’t know any better, well she’d say he looked plain bored. Here Hank replied, now, Helen, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, he said, but I do believe this to be true, in my heart of hearts, so I’m going to tell it to you straight dope. Honey, we can have all the fun we want. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. But at the end of the day, when your guns are up and your chips are down … well, there are only two kinds of music: The Blues … and Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.)

Though Hank’d made many-a-friend in his all-too-short-a time, most of those that filtered through to pay their respects were moreso along the line of professional acquaintance — peers in the craft brewing community, in which he was considered somewhat a man apart. Conveniently, they were already all in one place close by. Zeke had been instructed to schedule the reception to coincide with the industry’s largest annual festival and awards reception, which descended upon their city once per year like a swarm of locusts, between the fall solstice and winter equinox. As a younger man, Hank had been instrumental in the event’s establishment; however he hadn’t been personally in some years. Before long it had started to feel like the same old industry conferences and trade shows they sent him to for his old corporate gig, as he called it. Their little beer gathering had started out humbly in snug, but lively barrooms, before eventually graduating to the cavernous convention centers and dingy hotel ballrooms that were every last one of them utterly lifeless. Attendees wore badges. As if that made them Bona Fide. Rest assured, everybody was still drunk to beat the band; that was the same as ever. But, boy, was it ever a harsher buzz. I suppose it’s inevitable, Hank reflected, solemnly. Like Woodstock begot Altamont. Innocence lost. On that score, the Mick called bullshit. Hank wasn’t at Woodstock nor had he gone to Altamont. For Christ’s sake, old man, even You aren’t That old. Sixty-nine? You’d have been in fucking grade school. 

Great fanfare had been made in Hank’s memoriam over the past week’s proceedings. Foremostly, he was eulogized on the mainstage by his former New Frontier partner, the sitting Mayor Lawrence Mockingbird. Upon his one-time close friend and co-founder’s rich legacy, the Mayor bestowed — on behalf of the North American Master Brewers Labor Association — the Golden Medal Emeritus, only the second such awarded in the festival’s history. 

(The sole previous recipient had been the renowned beer writer, Orenthal J. Simpson. [No, not That O.J.] Author of the reference tome Beer in the World, Volumes I-III, the rollicking travelogue When in Belgium … We Must Have Beer, and the deeply poignant memoir Beer and Me: A Life Fermented, the Englishman and suds scribe’s many works were widely considered among industry professionals to have been a catalyst for sparking the nascent Craft Beer Movement in America, such as it was. In addition to his writings, Simpson also hosted a short-lived series on British public television documenting prominent beer cultures. Hank and Larry filmed a segment on the lone stateside episode, which for some reason or other got left on the cutting room floor. For that perceived slight, Mockingbird never forgave Simpson, and unsuccessfully fought the Association tooth and nail to obstruct his receiving the honor of his lifetime achievement.)

Golden Medal, my white ass. Yes, by the Mick’s appraisal it was a dubious honor at best. He had no intention of piling on the Posthumous Slurpage, as he so ineloquently put it, by providing yet another forum for these vultures to feast on Hank’s supposedly rotting carcass. Already several breweries had approached the Mick in the preceding months about doing a collab … for Hank. As if that weren’t the last thing he needed. Hell, Hank’d already caused him enough headache to last another lifetime when he walkabouted his way right off our mortal coil. Now I’m supposed to spend all afternoon with you, co-brewing a Scotch Ale (the beer most evocative of death, according to the Mick), or some other bullshit ain’t nobody asked for. And for what? To commercialize the occasion of his presumed death? Yeah, I got a better idea. How about you go dig a hole.

Alas, at the behest of the Mayor himself, high-ranking representatives from the Association had insisted that Hank’s brewery participate in his memorializing in some or other capacity. And as ever, they demanded to be taken seriously. The New Frontier would be made publicly available, for dues-paying members of the craft brewing community to pay their respects in solemn networking. Flummoxed by the prospect of throwing a memorial service-slash-industry mixer, the Mick delegated the assignment to Zeke, who was quite literally the only man for the job. 

###

Craft beer people weren’t yet accustomed to death within their close ranks. You’ve got to understand something: this Community(-such-as-it-was) had been less than thirty years in the making, give or take. Twenty, in earnest. So even the most senior among them hadn’t hardly started cashing Social Security checks. Then again, this being a sub-culture devoted to the making and consuming of alcohol in equal measure, a tragic some had died young. As fate had it, Hank wasn’t even the first of the original Newfers to check out. Here they were coming up on a decade since the beloved-by-some, Quinn Russell Schehrer had fatally tumbled backward from the third-floor landing of his fourth-floor walk-up apartment — a twenty-four Oz can of skunk beer in one hand, a slice of Dollar Pizza in the other, leaving only his neck to break his fall. That was New Years Day. 

However much as most everybody was fond enough of Russ, — and they were, mostly — they didn’t so much like to dwell on the means of his demise. It stands to reason then why he didn’t receive a Medal for his trouble.

Ages before he’d have to scamper back east with his tail between his legs, run out of town on a rail by a vengeful mob of ex-girlfriends followed closely by the creditors, hot on his trail, Russ had been hired as the Newfy’s founding brewmaster by Hank and his then-partner, who you’ll comprehend from this reading was Larry Mockingbird. To that effect, it’s important you remember that His Mediocracy, the Mayor was no career politician. He was an entrepreneur. A small businessman. Your friendly neighborhood barkeep. You’ll Believe Me When I Say I’m A Beer Man. This was a well-worn thread of his homespun yarn. (For Larry, the campaign trail goes on forever; the whistle never stops.) However, what he so often omitted from his humble origin story was how after eighteen months of acrimonious partnership, during which he’d already driven the mercurial, albeit eminently talented Russ to resign in protest, the future Mayor Larry cashed out his shares prematurely, leaving Hank holding the proverbial bag. A man of grander vision, he reinvested the proceeds of his shamelessly selling out toward seed funding a commercial real estate concern, which existed primarily to franchise out a network of cookie-cutter brewpubs around the Western, Mid-western and parts of the Pacific Northwestern United States. You know the old saying, Larry used to ask rhetorically: nobody ever got rich panning for gold? That it was the guy who sold him the shovel … 

… What a bunch of bullcrap. Dig this: The only one that ever really hit paydirt was the lucky bastard who leased the hardware sucker his storefront, then turned around and bought the busted claim off the destitute prospector for pennies on the dollar! 

Maybe he was right. Indeed he had managed to hoard a modest fortune in his shady dealings as a Dirt Pimp, as Hank got to calling him right straight to his face, which apart from the haunting absence of any color was altogether featureless. Harmonizing the echoes of Hank’s taunts, perhaps amplified by the pangs of his own protestant guilt ethic, Larry must have heard a higher calling to give back. Hence his pivot to public service. More likely, the office would better accommodate his imperial-strength ego, while still affording even more lucrative opportunities to liaise on behalf of his new developer buddies as their freshly-minted bag man in City Hall. 

He got elected to his first term not terribly long after Russ Schehrer died. The Mick would morbidly kid around the bar how Rushky had knew too much, so Mockingbird had him snuffed out, unfailingly making those in earshot uneasy, Kitty in particular. All joshing aside, the Mick had genuinely liked and looked up to Schehry, albeit mostly from afar. Come time the Mick had entered the picture, Russell had long since faded from focus. Hank and he’d remained amicable though, and once or twice a summer Russ’d stop by. QRS as he was sometimes known would walk right straight up to the Mick and say, well come on then Michael, what’s pissing you off this week?

The Mick never ran a deficit on grievance, but This was a week unlike any other.  Feist Week. Lo, how he fucking hated it. The Newfy downtown brewpub on Black Kettle Blvd. was the officially unofficial offsite gathering place for before, after and in between all sanctioned festival goings on. A satellite refueling station of sorts, as Hank used to say. The Mick set his production schedule every year in advance around MFFW, marking it on the pinup calendar (sent annually to members of the Association upon receipt of their scheduled payment … every month a different style of beer … September: Marzen) with a foreboding row of Big Red Xs, interspersed with the spelling of the word, Fuck. XFXUXCXKX 

From Portland to Portland, beer people packed the already cramped brewpub, shoulder-to-shoulder, for three days and four nights of gay revelry — their heathenistic Hajj to a once holy site of craft beer. At least one especially dorky beer person per year would gush to the Mick: you know, the Newfy is like the Velvet Underground of Brewing. Not, um, the most popular brewery, per se … but, like, your brewer’s favorite brewery. 

To this one may be asking: so what’s the fucking problem? Isn’t it true that any other brewer would piss in their own wort to achieve such cult status? Well, the Mick didn’t see it that way. Because no matter how many pints he sold that one lousy week out of fifty-two, it didn’t change the fact that the business he’d inherited was mired in a steady state of decline, as it had been year-over-year the last three. 

So then this hagiography was just a fucking hassle is all. Actually, you know, these festivals were like high school in a lot of ways, and being the friend that always hosts the party — whether because his or her folks travel a lot, or more likely they just don’t give a shit and their house as a pool or a sick basement — well it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. (There has to be a morning after. You ever tried to scrape petrified vomit off a shag carpet, kemosabe?) Here’s a little palace intrigue about the brewery business for you … when they journey outside their own little fiefdoms, craft beer people are well known to drink like royalty and tip like peasants. Plus, after a business week of heavy drinking, they were a sure haggard lot to service. That you could count on. A sight for sore eyes with the aroma to match. (A smell for stuffy noses.) For real though, Feist Week had a fucking fragrance. A signature scent, s’il vous plait. Stale beer, B.O., meat sweats and somehow also dairy.

Now here had arrived the week he so dreaded, with his own dissonant blend of disgust and dependence. Usually come Sunday afternoon, the Mick and his comrades could finally mouth breathe a sigh of relief, lick their wounds and count their blood money. Like squirrels, hoarding their nut for winter. And yet, from beyond the grave, Hank had found a way to make the longest week of the year one day more.

[occultadoom]

Ministry - From Beer to Eternity (2013)

Isn’t Ministry over? The spurs hung up last year? In 2007? Even longer in terms of relevancy or inspiration for some older fans no doubt anyway, right? For the past five years, the band’s all-encompassing front man, Al Jourgensen has been saying just this. No more Ministry and no more original Ministry music. Hmm. Seems you just can’t keep a good (or aging, drug warped, bored or broke – whichever…

[teawaffles]

There’s No Business Like Show Business: Chapter 3

“Fred. How’s their acting like to you?” Jack asked in a low voice.

They were seated at the edge of the stalls. They could also see Bond from where they were, completely focused on the stage.

“I’m not an actor myself, so this is just my personal opinion — but I think they’re awfully good,” Fred replied.

Jack gazed at the stage with a serious look in his eyes.

“I think so too. I won’t discount the fact that their sets and props look a little homemade, maybe due to a lack of budget; but when it comes to acting, each one of them is highly skilled. I can tell that the performers are all deeply familiar with the intent of the script.”

They were no theatre professionals for sure, but they possessed an eye for the true essence of their art.

The creases near Jack's eyes deepened as he quietly groaned.

“And best of all is that lady.”

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Moran agreed. With Fred included, all of them were focused on the lone person on the stage.

As Jack had pointed out, Maya, the chairwoman, was the standout actress even among the highly-skilled members of her own company.

Although she only held the lead role in “The Little Match Girl”, and was relegated to supporting roles for the other stories, the delivery of her lines, the movements of her body and hands, and even the slight shifts in her gaze — each and every one of her actions was perfectly under her control. They had seen a glimpse of this when she’d stood before her fellow company members previously, but this person on stage was completely different from the one who'd spoken to them at the entrance.

Even accounting for the fact that she had written the script herself, this level of sophistication in acting was not one which could be achieved by some run-of-the-mill actress. Moreover, the lines and pauses in the script had been carefully crafted to make it easy for the audience to relate to the stories.

From then on, the three of them enjoyed the rest of the play in silence, marvelling at her exceptional talent. Eventually, the rehearsal came to an end.

“——That concludes our performance. Thank you very much for coming.”

After her closing words, the company lined up on stage, silently waiting for Bond’s comments. While there had not been any flashy moments during the performance, almost all of them had sweat on their foreheads. Each breath they took revealed the depth of their concentration.

“…………”

For a short while, Bond stared at the stage without saying a word. Growing uneasy at the silence, the company members lowered their gazes slightly.

After what seemed like an eternity, Bond cleared his throat, and adjusted his posture. Seeing that, the company members straightened their backs.

“——If I were to summarise my thoughts, I think your acting has already reached a high standard. I’m sure all of you have put in much time and effort to achieve this.”

Their faces beamed at his compliment. But Bond would not allow them to be satisfied with that alone.

He rose from his seat.

“But that’s also why some bad habits have stood out to me. For example, the witch in ‘The Little Mermaid’: there were times when your movements were too exaggerated. I know that you wanted to emphasise her sinister nature, but the way you did so may turn off the audience.”

“Y-Yes……”

The actress who’d been singled out hung her head, perhaps out of shock. But Bond ignored this, and pointed to another woman.

“Now, you played the main character in ‘The Red Shoes’. I watched your steps after putting on the shoes — have you properly studied dance? It’s true that even some stage professionals may think that it’s alright to just mimic the real thing, but if you really want to make your performance more authentic, you must take the time to learn how to do it properly. Your audience will not be satisfied unless you show them a level of skill that will astonish even people in that profession.”

“Understood!” she responded with vigour.

“Next up is you: the way you project your voice——”

Then Bond singled out each of the performers in turn, highlighting in detail what they needed to work on. He only needed to watch their play once to spot areas for improvement at such a fine level of detail — his eye for the arts gave them all a sense of the former professional’s brilliance.

At last, Bond finished addressing every member of the company. But he then swept his gaze over the entire theatre.

“In addition…… this isn’t your fault at all, but your success today was only possible due to the small size of this theatre,” he said, with some distress. “If we were in a bigger venue, the hall would be wider and deeper to accommodate the larger audience. In other words, I’m afraid that with your current performance, your voices simply would not reach the entire audience.”

Maya paled.

“So, in order to accommodate the size of the venue……”

“Yes. The worst-case scenario would be that you have to rework the entire play. By the way, when is the opening night?”

“T—Two weeks later.”

The entire room was enveloped in silence. Even from where they were seated, Moran and the others felt the weight of their despair: all the hard work they had put in thus far, might just have amounted to nothing.

Even Bond, who had revealed this harsh reality, dropped his gaze and grimaced.

“Well, there are a fair number of productions that focus only on the stage, and do not account for the size of the audience, so you may not have to change——”

“——No, we’ll do it.”

Maya sharply interrupted his proposal.

“You’ve seen how I am; I’ve always been timid and hesitant…… but theatre is the one thing I will never compromise on. Especially now — this is a rare opportunity for us. For my fellow company members, for the people who’ve supported us this far, I want to show them something I’ve put every effort into making.”

“…………”

At her words, the rest of the company nodded in silence.

Even with the actual performance only two weeks away, Maya and her company had steeled their hearts and chosen to start again from scratch. That stubborn determination surprised Bond, and even Moran and the rest.

“U—Um…… Mr Bond, I actually have something I wish to discuss with you……”

Out of the blue, Maya’s voice had grown soft.

“U—Um, if it is alright with you, just for the next two weeks, could you sit in during our rehearsals? A—Ah, actually, just whenever you have the time would be fine……”

Bond chuckled.

Even after being told about all those problems, they refused to stand down, and even continued to ask for help. Their mental fortitude sparked hope in him, and he couldn’t help but let out a grin.

Bond shot the party in the stalls a questioning look. Moran looked to Jack and Fred in turn, before giving him a thumbs-up.

With that, the former flames of passion within Bond burned even hotter. He faced the company members with a determined grin.

“——Okay. But I will be especially tough on you all, so be prepared.”

Then, he called out to Fred.

“Fred-kun. I would like your help as well — is that alright with you?”

“Understood,” he replied, standing up.

“Bond, I’m always happy to teach knife-wielding.”

“And you can always ask me about gun handling.”

“Now that would be helpful,” Bond smiled at Jack and Moran’s jests, then turned back to the stage.

“Well then, everyone — for the next two weeks, let’s do our best together.”

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

“During a performance, you must be always be aware of three things: the audience, the other actors, and yourself. If the feeling of being ‘watched’ becomes too strong for you, first direct your attention within yourself. Then, you will be able to focus on your acting once again.”

“I don’t advocate the idea of getting into a role. In the end, acting is just a skill: what you should focus on instead is how you are moving.”

“Although an effective way of bringing out emotions is to dredge up your past memories, I would advise you to avoid that. Recent memories are too concrete and vivid — if you must do so, use memories from your distant past. And be careful: if you frequently immerse yourself in negative emotions, you will hurt yourself on a spiritual level too.”

In a small theatre in Whitechapel, Bond’s instructions came forth ceaselessly.

He stood on stage together with the company members: carefully reviewing their movements, even acting them out himself as an example on occasion, and putting in every effort to raise the level of their production.

The remaining two weeks were short, but with their foundations already strong to begin with, Maya and her company steadily honed their acting skills to perfection.

One week left until the show. His work as an instructor had finally ended for the day, and he let out a sigh as he sat in the stalls to catch his breath.

“Good work today — fancy a sip?”

Having watched the proceedings from the stalls, Moran handed him a bottle of water. It was a beer bottle — very Moran-like — and Bond accepted it with a smile.

“Thanks, Moran-kun.”

Bond gulped down a single mouthful of water.

“So, how’s the play going?”

“At first I thought we would be hard-pressed for time, but they truly exceeded my expectations. I think we might just make it. ……Scratch that, we will make it.”

Moran nodded.

“That’s right. And they seem to be well-liked by the residents around here. I really hope they can pull it off.”

As Moran gazed off into the distance, a thought just occurred to Bond. He cocked his head.

“Come to think of it, you really didn’t have to tag along with me all this time, you know?”

Ever since the day Bond had agreed to lend his support to the company, his other colleagues had stopped over from time to time to cheer him on. However, Moran had made it a point to come to the theatre every day without fail.

Moran scratched his cheek in embarrassment.


“……Well, it’s not like I have anything else to do when there aren’t any missions. As a senior member of this organisation, I’m just here to see how my junior works.”

“Even though you’ve been skipping out on chores at the mansion?”

“D—Dammit, I told you before: I always do my share of the work, you know.”

Bond had said that half-jokingly, but his words flustered Moran nevertheless. It seemed he had not been entirely wrong about that.

Bond returned his gaze to the stage.

“……Thank you, Moran-kun,” he said quietly.

“Hmm? Didn’t you already say that earlier?”

“This one means something different,” he said, with a hint of mischief in his voice. Moran raised an eyebrow in bemusement, but the presence of a caring senior alone warmed Bond’s heart.

Just then, they heard the sound of the theatre doors opening.

As the two men turned to look, they saw a portly middle-aged man with a magnificent moustache standing at the entrance.

Maya hurriedly bowed in his direction. “T—Thank you so much for your help thus far! What brings you all the way here?”

From her formal manner, it seemed this was the very noble who had asked them to stage the opening act for his theatre.

“Ah, you’ve been working hard, I see,” he said as he stroked his moustache, a big smile on his face.

“Yes; with your assistance, we’ve been able to prepare for the performance in time. I’m sure the audience will be satisfied with——”

“Well, about that.”

The man interrupted Maya, still all smiles.

“——Your performance has been cancelled.”

“What?”

No one could believe their ears.

Her expression brimmed with confusion.

“U-Um, what do you mean……?”

“What does it mean? Just pretend our conversation back then didn’t happen. That’s all.”

The man made another simple pronouncement, then smiled as if nothing was wrong.

“Honestly, it’s just as well that this has happened, since I’ve also been troubled over your debut. So what I’m saying is, your company doesn’t have to turn up. That’s alright with you, isn’t it?”

The entire company was still in a state of shock. Then, Bond addressed the man directly.

“Now hold on just a moment. What do you mean, you were troubled? Then why did you ask them to perform? What’s more, isn’t it a little late to cancel the performance at this juncture?”

Hearing that, the man sighed in displeasure.

“Who are you, anyway? Someone connected to this company? I’m not happy to be asked so many questions at once.”

“Then I’ll summarise it for you. If you were going to cancel the performance so easily, why bother requesting Maya and her company to perform anyway?”

At Bond’s question, the nobleman shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, that’s simple. I just felt like it.”

“……What?”

Those shocking words froze him to the core.

“I’d heard about a reputable theatre company in the slums. Since there’s this notion of noblesse oblige anyway, I thought a performance would be a good topic for conversation and approached them. But then I grew to realise that the thought of poor people stepping onto the sacred stage of an official theatre just didn’t sit well with me. So yesterday, I finally decided to put an end to this madness.”

“How could you……”

He had asked Maya’s company to perform on a whim, and then cancelled their act on a selfish whim as well. And this was all decided just ‘yesterday’. Even though they had been putting in every effort into their play.

The nobleman continued.

“That’s all I had to say. You poor folk are living off the graces of the nobility, so be grateful that I even bothered to come all this way to talk to you. Now that I’m finished here, I’ll be leaving. The smell here is simply an assault on my senses.”

Right before he walked out, the man spat out one last line.

“Well, at least you all had a nice dream, didn’t you?”

“………!”

A violent rage surged within Bond. Somehow, he managed to grit his teeth and hold himself back. If he were to retaliate right now, he would be inviting unnecessary reprisal on Maya and her company rather than himself. So all he could do was look daggers at the nobleman’s back as he left.

The theatre was enveloped in a mournful silence. Everyone seemed to have lost their verve, and no one uttered a word. Bond was shaking with frustration.

Amidst the heavy atmosphere, just one man — Moran — gazed upon the situation with composure.

Finally, Maya, the chairwoman, mumbled in a thin voice.

“Um, I’m so sorry. I think, I’m not feeling too well……”

Then, with a hollow expression, she headed to the dressing room, her footsteps shaky.

[kashimos-hajime]

fragrance | a.h.

summary: Plato said, “The god of love lives in a state of need. It is a need. It is an urge. It is a homeostatic imbalance. Like hunger and thirst, it's almost impossible to stamp out.”

WARNINGS: LMAO SMUT (18+), oral (m!receiving), swearing, drinking, nervous and awkward y/n and hotch heehee pairing: college!aaron hotchner x fem!reader word count: 4.8k

a/n: lmao so i watched a tiktok of THAT SCENE in love and human remains so i am legally obligated to write what inspired me. ok but @venusbarnes,,, it happened,,,

part of the bitter end universe but not required beforehand to read this. takes place in their second year of college

In retrospect, you know you’re freaking out over nothing.

You just showered, changed outfits twice, tried to fix your hair, inspected your makeup constantly since you’ve finished, and tried to figure out a way to call it off to pass the time.

Why are you even worried? Ever since you’ve gotten off the plane, which, in itself, is a step you cannot backtrack since you are merely a college student with limited funds, your knees have been weak and you feel like you don’t really have a stomach.

Why? It’ll be fine.

You’ve been over Aaron for two-and-some-months years, now. The distance did you good, did you both good. Namely, you’re quite damn sure you don’t feel anything for him anymore besides the occasional flicker of irritation, the excited burst in your stomach, the absolute terror of seeing him again.

How has he changed? It feels like it’s been so long.

You glance at the clock.

9:55

You said 10AM. You have five minutes at the most to get yourself together and just run down the staircase, shove yourself into his presence before your nerves can tell you to turn back. Taking a deep breath, you look at your reflection in the mirror one last time before heading to the desk and grabbing your wrist watch. It’s worn down leather is soft to your touch and you feel an overwhelming sense of calm overtake you.

This will be fine.

As you fasten it to your wrist, you glance at the face. Time seems to tick by slower as you pull on your ankle boots, swipe a finger over your lip, and grab your room key. As you descend the cold stairwell, memories grasp at your consciousness, tease you, but you push them away and instead focus on putting on foot in front of the other, focus on gathering the courage to stand in front of him again.

Before you know it, you’re opening the door and walking over to the pacing figure you only know to be your best friend. His hair is still long, but he’s wearing a leather jacket, so that’s new, and he’s frowning to himself.

And it makes you smile, because that’s him. Aaron Hotchner, master frowner, broody boy. His hair is still long, his eyes still so dark. He hasn’t changed.

God, what will you say to make him laugh?

“What’s the deal with the jacket, George?” you say without thinking.

“George? And here I thought I was John,” he replies just as quickly, matching your tone and your entire heart lurches into your throat as your smile grows stiffly.

Crap. 

And that’s when you realize that, quite frankly, that convincing yourself that you’re over Aaron Hotchner is going to be a lot harder than it looked at first.

You’re fighting the urge to let the whole facade drop, but you can’t because this is Aaron, your best friend you haven’t seen in forever and although you’re so fucking happy to see him, you know everything is easier said than done.

He’s just your best friend, and you’re… you’re… feeling great. Your stomach is a bundle of nerves but that’s because you’re excited to spend time with him. Right?

“So, where to?” you ask, feeling quite exposed as he looks at you strangely. “I’m starving,” you say, an overwhelming need to explain causing word vomit to spill out of your mouth, “so, I was thinking we could get some breakfast, first. I’m in the mood for anything really.”

“Oh,” he says. “I have a place in mind.”

“O-okay. Lead the way, then. It’s kinda chilly out, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah. Do you needa grab another coat?” he asks as you step closer and they begin to walk to the door. He opens it for you and as you slip past him, your entire system shuts down. Your mind heads straight for the gutter, vivid images, voices, feelings from your dream flashing through your head.

Cheap beer, smoke, sweat, and a cologne you can’t forget.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“N-no. I’m okay. Are you, uhm, are you going to be okay in just that jacket? It looks great, by the way.” Are your hands shaking or is that just the swelling throat and the hard lump in your gut’s fault?

Shit. Holy shit. Shit. Shit. SHIT.

“Thanks, and, uh, no. I’m okay. Are you okay?”

You nod and smile shakily. “Great. It’s just… I’m really glad to see you.”

He stops for a moment, stares as if he knows or maybe you just feel naked in your own skin, and then matches your timid smile. “I’m really happy to see you too.”

Right. What did you say again about nerves?

[TWENTY HOURS EARLIER]

“You guys better behave,” Aaron sighs. “I’m not gonna be responsible if I have to deck Carter.”

“Woah there, Hotch,” his roommate comments, sliding off his bed and slinging an around his shoulders. “You have a girlfriend.”

“We’re on a break, actually.”

“I thought you don’t believe in breaks.”

“Well, we’re just talking things out with the long distance thing. It’s not like when she was in high school. She just needs to adjust to her first year, and we’re still talking. So, it’s more like… an intermission before we resume after mid-terms.”

“So, you’re single.”

“Technically, but I’m also not looking,” he retorts, just in case his roommate tries to set something up behind his back, but the guy merely shrugs.

“Whatever you say, Hotch-o.”

He scowls, getting up and running a hand through his hair before grabbing his jacket off the hook. “I’m just trying to say that Y/N’s been there for me since before you guys and before Haley.”

“I get it,” his roommate, named Earl, says as he flips the collar of his varsity jacket and grabs the room key. “She’s like a sister to you, right?” Aaron doesn’t say anything to that and Earl doesn’t prod him any further as he grabs his backpack and slings it onto his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Hotch. I’ll spread the word to the guys. They won’t try anything.”

“Yeah, thanks, Earl.”

“I’m heading to class, but it’s the bar tonight, right? You’ll pick her up from the airport?”

“Yeah.” The door opens and closes with a click and Aaron lets out a sigh, turning away from the mirror so he can stop pretending he’s trying to fix whatever Earl thought was wrong with his appearance. He just wanted to stay busy so his friend could leave him alone to his messy thoughts.

He had received your last letter on Monday, confirming your flight for the Thanksgiving weekend. You’d be here with him and his friends for three days.

It wasn’t his idea, nor yours. Sort of like… a mutual epistolary understanding that enough is enough and one of them should just… go.

You had volunteered for that. You had always wanted to see Harvard’s gorgeous campus, according to your last letter.

Aaron runs a hand through his hair and sighs. He has one day off to catch up on the work assigned, get ahead of the reading, and just relax before his friends drag him off to hang out until the sun rises for an entire weekend. He’s sure you’ll love it. You’ve always loved staying out at night where it’s light, watching the sunrise and going to sleep to it.

Despite everything, you enjoy the solitude the night, the contemplative silence of it. Just like him. 

He can’t wait to see you again.

Sitting in the RA office and watching time tick by, he can’t help but feel like something is chaining him down. A heavy weight sits between his shoulders and he stares at the clock for what feels like a short eternity, unable to focus.

The day is slow in its passing, and a growing, unwanted hollowness begins to fill his soul as he half-heartedly finishes his criminal causation theory assignment, reviews for the quiz on Tuesday, and reads the next chapter on the foundations of the criminal justice system. He doesn’t really pay attention to any of it, though, and he feels like his head is stuffed with cotton as he gets up for the first time in hours and stretches, glancing at the time.

Your plane is supposed to land at 6:30.

It’s 6:00 now, and he was supposed to eat dinner before going to pick you up.

Shit. He’ll just have to eat at the bar.

Gathering his books and papers into his bag, he slings it onto his shoulder, trying to ignore the cold sweat clamming his hands up just as the phone in the RA office rings. It’s so jarring her starts, turning to the device and his heart pounds in his throat as he goes to grab it. Duty to the job means he has to, even if he might be late. You’ll understand, right?

“Hello, Resident Assistant speaking,” he says with a sigh.

“Hey.”

“Y/N?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Student Services was kind enough to reroute me.” A car beeps behind you and he frowns, holding the phone closer to his ear as he adjusts the strap on his shoulder to sit more firmly. “I’m calling from an airport payphone, but bad news. My flight got delayed, so I can’t come to the bar tonight. I’ll be arriving, like, dead in the morning. Two or three AM.”

“Damn. The boys will miss meeting you,” he says, unable to help the unhappy but forced smile. It comes across as a grimace but he hopes you appreciate the effort. It’s what you’d say if you were here.

“The boys?” you echo, amused. “Well then, tell the boys that they’ll have to wait until morning.” More seriously: “I’m really sorry, Aaron. I was so excited to see you tonight.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s—it’s okay. Don’t worry about it, Sunflower.”

“Sunflower?” you repeat and Aaron feels his throat shrink to the diameter of a needle. “You don’t call me that unless you’re genuinely sorry about something bad. Like, death-bad.” Then, a bright laugh that shouldn’t bat away the dreary disposition overcoming him, but it does. “Aaron, it’s not that important—just one night. Look, let’s meet up at 10AM in the hotel lobby tomorrow morning and make up for it, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. See you in a bit, Hopscotch.”

“Bye.”

He heads to his room, your voice echoing in his head. Freshening up with a splash of cold water and a rake of a comb through his hair, he explains the situation to Earl as they head down to the bar near campus where some of the other guys are already drinking.

“That’s too bad. Would’ve been nice to meet her.”

“Tomorrow, Earl. She isn’t cancelling.”

“I know, but y’know, it would’ve been fun to beat her in darts.”

“You’re awful at darts.”

“Bigger opponent pool. C’mon, cheer up, Hotch. It’s just a delayed flight, you said so yourself.” More grumpy silence. “Hey, I know what’ll cheer you up. First shots are on me.”

.

His cheeks flushed with heat, he grabs at the shot blindly and throws it back, laughing as his friends get on the dance floor. The bar seems to haze before him. The darkness is pierced by blue lights and red as the shadowed patrons swing to and fro on the floor. Everything is gauzy, edges blurred as the lights flicker and filter through the crowd. Aaron slouches against the booth, smirking at the way Earl’s trying to lay the moves on a girl who merely walks away and he flashes a sympathetic thumbs up before his friend simply rejoins the rest of the guys on the floor.

Everyone had chipped in to buy him round after round in order to get him to loosen up, and it’s hard to admit, but it’s worked. Everything is ethereal, and he feels like he’s floating through life.

He wants to dance, but he doesn’t think he can stand on his own two feet, to be honest. His entire world is tipped and the silly smile on his face isn’t going to disappear any time soon as a figure makes her way through the crowd, making her way towards him. It catches his eye, the way she moves around people, keeps her head held up.

He can’t quite see her face but even then, he knows that he knows her.

“What are you doing here?” he asks before he can stop himself, like he isn’t in control of his mouth. He gapes as the woman sits down beside him. Her skin smells like sweet fruit and the sting of tequila as she slings an arm around his neck, and his entire stomach flips as she leans over, her arm bent and her fingers playing with the hair by his ear. “You’re not… you’re not supposed to be here.”

“Why not?” she asks, twirling hair around her finger as she gently trails her other hand down his chest. “You don’t want me here?”

“No, no, I’ve missed you, I just—” Her palm runs lower, over his stomach and further. His head whips towards her and he catches the sweet, dulcet notes of warm vanilla spice shampoo. It calms him, sweet in his sinuses and he watches her indistinguishable face. Despite not seeing quite clearly, he knows she’s beautiful with an unintentionally seductive smile, a tentative charm to her movements.

The hand stops and a heat burns through his chest, following the trail she’d carved into him and he feels blood drain from his head so viciously it leaves him lightheaded.

“Just what?” she asks quietly, yet still so loudly over the pub’s pounding music and he groans softly, head tilting back.

“Shit. I just didn’t expect you here. I should introduce you to my friends—” He wants to get up but finds his entire body moving through molasses. He can barely lift a finger and, through the blurred streams of the conscious and the subconscious, he knows he doesn’t really want to.

He doesn’t want to share.

“Oh, then let’s go.” Her hand lifts but, like a flash of lightning, his fingers wrap around her wrist and keep her firmly against him. “Aaron.” Chastising this time, like he’s a housecat, and she, the exasperated owner. Fingers thread through his hair as he grins at the woman.

“I’m not keen on sharing you right now,” he admits, eyes falling to lips that press into a wondrous smile. “I don’t feel keen on sharing you ever.”

“Is that a fact?” she asks, and he nods, his nose brushing against hers as she leans down to kiss him. Her mouth is warm ecstasy, like cider on a cold winter day that burns through his blood, and his heart is beating everywhere at once—in his throat, in his fingers, between his legs. Fingers card through his hair as his hand finds the curve of a hip and he pulls.

Immediately, as if sensing his intentions before he even thinks it, the woman swings a leg over his hip and straddles him, the dress riding up luxurious thighs and he chuckles to himself as her hands find his neck, thumbs brushing over the sharp cut of his jaw. Her mouth opens against his, breathing into the next ferocious kiss again as his hands trace the shape of her, the swell of her legs, the cool heat of her skin against his burning hands.

“What do you want from me, Aaron?” she whispers, leaning in close enough that he can feel her lips against the shell of his ear, and then down his neck. He gasps, breath catching in his throat as her hands gently squeeze his throat as if reminding him of her previous question but he can’t quite speak. She kisses down past his collarbones, pulls down the neck of his shirt teasingly and peppers kisses to the skin that she can reach. Her fingers are pressing into his pulsepoint, the other hand travelling down his waist again and he knows she can feel it, the hard bulge pressing up between her legs. 

She trails back up again, her kisses teasing the corner of his mouth and he turns, trying to catch the elusive minx only to delight in her light laughter when she pulls back.

“Tease,” he mumbles, eyes shut tight and only then do her lips find his again just as fingers pull at his belt buckle and he sucks in a breath as she glances down with him, curiously running her knuckles gently along the curve of it. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows down his gasp and he hears her chuckle. As if he’s a mere bystander to his own actions, Aaron watches his hands trail up the sides of her and slowly find purchase on her shoulders.

With the gentlest of pressure, he pushes down, and it’s like she melts between his hands, legs sliding, entire body sinking as his legs open wider to welcome her. Her breath is warm as she unzips his jeans, fingers prying his boxers down until they brush against it, pulsing and hard against his abdomen.

“Jesus,” she whispers but he hears it so clearly, her breath teasing the tip as fingers wrap around his dick. A strong, warm tongue follows, from the bottom to the tip, tracing the vein and every single ounce of oxygen leaves his body when she goes down on him, endlessly warm and wet. Hands wrap around what isn’t in her mouth and his fingers find her scalp, grabbing fistfuls of hair as his head hits the wall behind him.

Swallowing tightly, a lopsided smirk crosses his face and he lets out a soft sigh when she tilts her head, takes him in until she’s gagging on it. His hips twitch but a hand against his pelvis stalls him, a firm pressure that makes him open his eyes and look down to see her already staring back at him. Eyes dark, lips shining in what light there is, he nearly loses it right there as she swallows him down, making his entire body clench. His jaw tight, he lets out a hissed moan and the hand not on her head grabs his thigh, trying to stave off the desire to fuck her mouth.

The bass beat of the pub beats in his head as the hand on his hip finds the hand on his thigh, traces the tense veins along the back as her head slowly draws up, teeth grazing, tongue flat against his cock.

And then, down again, heavy breaths against his navel through the nose, and he’s in fucking bliss as the woman just goes on and on, deeper and deeper and when she gags, it almost makes him lose his already ill-tempered control because her fingers dig into the back of his hand, the other one squeezes the base of his cock, and stars explode behind his eyes as he chuckles breathlessly, blindly to the ceiling.

A ringing splinters through his skull as he groans, the need to thrust growing too powerful but she squeezes his hand, telling him to stay still without ever lifting her mouth off his cock. He can hear it, the sounds of her wet mouth rising and falling, sucking and licking and fuck, if he’s not going to come down her throat—

Her tongue drags along the underside of his cock as she pulls away, hollowing out her cheeks and dragging her fingers up his painfully hard erection, through the wet slick her mouth left behind and she pulls herself up, back bending underneath his hand, chest pressed flush against his and he can taste her again; the sweetness of vanilla, the sweat the pub brings all its occupants, the desire that fizzles so wantonly against his tongue.

“Am I still teasing?” she asks, lips brushing against his chin before he’s lifting his head again. Her hands run over his chest, find the planes of his shoulders, the cord of his neck, and he chuckles, squeezing his waist as she climbs into his lap again, sits squarely so that his erection rubs against her stomach. He bites back a groan and her smirk tells him all he needs to know.

“Seeing as you didn’t let me finish…” he trails off, just as humorous and she laughs, mouth ghosting his, and he almost reaches for it before she’s drawing back, always just out of reach. Never his. Never. “C’mere.”

“You’re no fun,” she mutters, but her smile betrays her faux displeasure and as his hands down and under her dress, skirting along the waistband of lacey panties, he chuckles huskily. “I love you, you know that?”

“I know. And do you know how much I want you? How much… how much I need you?” His fingers hook on the waistband and begin to tug just as she cups his face and leans down. His eyes flutter shut and everything seems to melt away as her breath tickles his nose and he grins, pulling down, down, down…

“You could show me, if you’d like…”

Her laughter is the only thing he can hear. Well, that and…

And that ringing—

Holy shit, what is that ringing?

Opening his eyes, there is nothing. Reaching blindly in the darkness, his hand collides with his alarm clock and he slaps the button, turning it off as he groans, turning the digital numbers towards him.

5:45AM

When did he get back? God, his head is pounding, and… he has to get up. Shit. His thoughts are a disorganized mess as he gets up, throwing off the blankets and it’s only then he’s painfully aware that he got… more than excited about his dream.

His dream that’s fading from his memory the longer he’s awake that he can barely remember any of it. Iit was at the bar last night? When did he even get back to the dorm? 

Swinging his legs off the bed, he flicks the light on the nightstand, spotting a glass of water with a dissolving alka selzter tablet and a note. Grabbing it, he squints against the light as he reads the messy, uneven scrawl.

Stayed by your side all night because you sulked and got hammered. Like blackout drunk. Even outdrank me, buddy, which is fuckin impressive.

Wake me up for breakfast. I’m drunk.

Goodnight. And you’re welcome.

-E

Shaking his head, he downs the water despite how much his head throbs at the movement before he gets up and awkwardly palms the front of his boxers, trying to ignore how much it physically hurts that he’s not doing anything about it.

He needs to shower and take care of this.

Grabbing new clothes, Aaron glances at his snoring roommate and curses his routine of waking up so damn early. He collects his toiletries, and as he heads for the shower, he tries to think back on his dream, but it’s dissipating quicker by the second.

It was definitely at the bar, he thinks. Something about… he doesn’t know but something smelled and tasted sweet. What was I even doing at the bar?

Well, by the erection against his thigh, it’s safe to assume what he was dreaming about.

The question is more about the who.

.

Your eyes fly open and you lurch up on your bed.

Your whole body is burning as the remaining wisps of your dream begin to fade and you glance around yourself, disoriented. You could’ve sworn you weren’t in your bedroom for a second, but as you glance around, you know you are. You’re no longer in that dark place with blue lights that swung, figures blurry. That someone who was crouched in front of you, you think, is gone and his hands which had pulled your legs apart with gentle hesitation hadn’t left scorch marks, but they might as well have.

The sensation still lingers.

God, it feels like you haven’t slept a wink and as you slowly wake, your body rebooting, you become more filled with dread. Sighing heavily, you rub at your eyes and touch your cheeks, trying to remember what you did before sleeping.

I showered, went straight to bed. Didn’t go out… then… What’s happening? What was I even dreaming about?

It’s only then you become acutely aware of between your legs. The soaked, uncomfortable sensation, the strange tightness of your thighs.

Holy fuck. And about who?

Running a hand over the cold sheets, you shiver and get up, grabbing the unopened complimentary mini bottle of water you’d gotten from the plane from your bag.

As soon as you take one sip, you’re chugging it down, trying to alleviate the sweat gathering at the nape of your neck, slipping down your back. You feel oily and strangely empty, your heart racing as you toss the empty plastic into the trash can and head back towards the bed, reaching blindly for the light switch. Turning it on, you glance at the clock. 5:47 in the morning.

Charming.

In less than five hours, you’ll have to be heading down to the lobby and facing your best friend.

Why does that thought suddenly fill you with a terrible concoction of nerves, nausea, and cold shivers?

Trying to grasp the last remnants of your dream, you head for the bathroom to splash some water on your face and change your underwear, too bone-dead tired to even think about showering. Then, you head back to bed to try to get some sleep, but the heat seems to be more than skin-deep because despite the amount of splashing and patting of freezing water against an exhausted face, a terrible, sinking feeling twists your gut, making your knees weak.

What on Earth were you even dreaming about? You can’t even remember now except you feel utterly exhausted in the wake of it and the only hint of the content is the slick between your thighs.

Your sleep-addled brain eventually convinces any part of you still awake to just try to sleep, and as you slip into the covers, the faint but entirely unique scent of cologne, beer and smoke clings to your senses.

[THE PRESENT]

Really, it should be okay. 

The hotel isn’t too sketchy, the lobby smells vaguely of lavender and cinnamon from one of those bath shop candles, and he shouldn’t be worried.

Why is he worried? His guts have been in knots since he’s woken up, his head feels like it's been dunked in water for hours and everything is swimming as he sits in the lobby, his palms sweating. Maybe it’s the hangover, but it feels heavier than that. Yes, his head is hammering, but there’s a strange upset in his gut, too.

Must’ve been something about that dream he can’t quite place. Just thinking about it makes his head beat even harder.

But, you had said ten o’clock.

Ten o’clock.

He looks at his wrist watch.

9:57

Time seems to be passing so slowly that he’s not sure the seconds even tick by as his knee begins to jiggle, his hands run flat against his jeans. When he can’t take the nervous ticking inside his chest, he gets up to pace, eyes darting to the staircase where you’d be coming down from.

Is he nervous about seeing you or excited? Is it both? Neither? Something else?

Aaron thinks he’s going to throw up. What if it’s awkward? After all, years between the last visit and now—in the summer, somehow they always just miss each other or there’s money problems or some other plan—things are bound to change.

It’s nerves. It has to be.

The door opens and he turns around to see you there, walking over to him with a dark jacket over a green shirt. It clashes wonderfully and you’re smiling like the sun lives in your heart and you’re smiling at him.

“What’s the deal with the jacket, George?” you tease, gesturing to his leather jacket.

“George?” he repeats easily, too easily. An overwhelming flood in his chest and you arch an eyebrow, grinning still, and it’s like no time has passed at all. “And here I thought I was John.” Your smile only grows and he feels like he can’t breathe and that’s when he knows he’s fucked.

As you adjust your own jacket, compliment him on his, and ask where he wants to go for breakfast, Aaron can’t help the terrible ache in his chest.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Shit.

He opens the door and you walk by, the smell of shampoo invading his entire space and he reels back, blinking. His breath hitches, his entire body stiffens.

Warm vanilla spice.

Oh, shit.

a/n: so, uh, sex dreams for the win? to be decided ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) dont forget to reblog if u liked loves ❤️ 

TAGS: @withyoutilltheendofthismess @thebriarpatch @joemazzello-imagines @thisiscalm-andits-doctor @sera-wonderland @pity-mee @duvetsandpillows @roses-and-grasses @stainedpomegranatelips @angelsbabey @sansonnette @xxlovingfandomsxx @rachelxwayne @kingandrear @simsvetements @emery--nicole--morrison​ @genevievedarcygranger @mooneylupinblack​ @sercyan​ @forgottenword

[canonical-transformation]

The Stellar Moments Vol. 2: Genshin OST 'review'

I have been waiting for this for so long. With all the airtime Vol 1 gets on streams/videos (Albedo and Zhongli themes, looking at you), it's easy to overlook the absolute bangers from the past year.

Mini-review and personal favourites:

#3 Any Last Words?

Writing team: "You should go with erdu: traditional Chinese folk." "Or! A trap beat! It's youthful." "Nonono, this is our only chance to do haunted house music."

Composer: "Hold my beer."

It's wacky, it's hilarious, my wife keeps jumping out from behind corners singing it, it nails the spooky prankster vibe while maintaining the aura that, oh, this woman could be deeply respectful and spiritual but she's just not feeling it y'know?

#4 Shadow of Nemesis

It's so compact! They take the rhythm from the combat motif (𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮, see other Genshin OSTs for Photon of Fluctuation, Overlord of the Thunderstorm, etc.) and they overlay it with swirly Gothic Church Organ and a beat so ill even Barbara can't save it.

#7 Dance of Aphros

"Dance of Sacrifice. Act 3. Flickering Candlelight."

Look, if there's one Character Demo track from mid-2021 i'd expect players might know by heart, it's Eula's theme. The flamenco(?) is so packed with tragedy and pathos, hold your head high and they will hate you no less but you owe it to yourself, a lifetime's of repressed emotion comptessed beneath a formal, rigid dance form.

This theme is utterly her, it's as perfect a summation of Eula's character as her Vision story -- look it up -- is.

(*googles* i see, Aphros, demigod of seafoam, niiiiice)

#13 Eternity in a Moment

I picked Yoimiya's character teaser music over her character demo (track #14), the latter being also excellent and fun but I think really needing the visual gags and silliness of that trailer to shine. This one feels more... stand-alone?

One of a handful of purely orchestral tracks on this OST, does that beautiful Ab-Bb-C sweeping motion with the chords that makes it feel like you're caught in the middle of the most beautiful scene in the whole film and the scene isn't ending it's just the emotion of one perfect moment caught like a butterfly in a jar and allowed to breathe and expand from that single moment to a whole sunset's worth of time, transience transience transience but prolonged; i'm a little gay for yoimiya's upbeat outlook tbh

#15 Will of Thunder

Kujou Sara now, and what I love about this is how it exists entirely in the shadow of Ei/Raiden's theme. It's all allusion to the Narukamo Ogosho and almost nothing hinting at the Tengu's personality and that seems... pretty damned fitting?

#21 Termination of Desires

Not *quite* as epic as Raiden/Ei's phase 2 battle theme, but it comes close. Isn't it amazing how heavily her personal leitmotif plays into the whole Inazuma soundtrack?

I aware this a "nice m8" medal for the best beat drop in an album full of excellent beat drops. (What is it with archons and juicy drops? Zhongli's trailer music is iconic, and even Venti's pops once you get past the stupidly long build-up.)

---

Wow Mihoyo's music team continues to be phenomenal. In-game music, marketing music like these ones... I dislike a lot of things about this game but Volume 3 (Dendro archon omfg) ain't gonna be one of them

[wiypt-writes]

Riding High

Chapter 12- ILY

Chapter Summary: Its Christmas…and we reach the end of a stressful year for Frank…but as he looks back he realises, it ain’t all been that bad.

Chapter Warnings: Bad Language words. Talks of SMUT but nothing major

Chapter Pairings:  Frank Adler x OFC Fliss Gallagher

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Fliss Gallagher and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Riding High Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter 11

Frank looked up as Fliss walked into her parent’s kitchen and his mouth dropped open. She was dressed in a gorgeous long legged strapless jumpsuit along which the neckline was embellished with lace flowers which spread down the sheer sleeves. Her long hair was styled in loose curls and she’d done something to her make up that made her cheek bones stand out even more. Her eyelids were adorned with a deep green that shimmered and made her dark eyes pop and she had a clear gloss on her plump lips. Fuck, she looked stunning. But as he watched, he saw her face fall and she bit her lip.

“Is it…is it not ok?” She asked shyly “I can change…I mean…”

“Don’t you dare.” He said sternly, stepping forward, his hands falling to her hips “Honey, you look amazing.”

Her face lit up and she smiled at him, shyly “I wasn’t sure how posh to go or…”

“Lissy…” He chuckled “Stop it.”

“Sorry.” She wrinkled her nose as she stepped back slightly and looked him up and down, taking in his dark jeans, boots and light denim button down. “You look pretty good too Sailor.” she smiled, running her hands up his chest to his shoulder and he noticed then she was also wearing her Pandora. He smiled back, his eyes also spotting that her neck was bare and then had the perfect idea for a final Christmas Gift he had been struggling to come up with. With a soft smile he leaned down, taking in that she was slightly taller than usual thanks to her heels and he pressed a gentle kiss to her mouth.

“Get a room…” Bill shot as he walked into the kitchen, Mary in tow.

“Bore off.” Fliss shot back, looking at her dad as he sent her a grin before he did a double take.

“Wow, you look cracking Titch.”

“Thanks” she smiled

“You ready to go?”

“Sure you don’t mind dropping us?” Frank turned to look at Bill “It’s no problem to get a cab.”

“It’s no bother at all, besides, I need to collect the Thai anyway.” Bill waved him off.

“You’re getting Thai?” Frank raised an eyebrow and glanced at Mary “Funny that just so happens to be your favourite…”

She shrugged “Verity asked what I wanted for dinner.”

Frank sighed and looked at Bill “You spoil her.”

Bill shrugged “And?”

Frank rolled his eyes a soft smile playing on his face. The way that Bill and Verity had welcomed Mary, and him for that matter, into their lives still amazed him. Whilst he and Fliss had only been officially together four weeks or so now, they’d opened their doors to him the day they had met pretty much back in August and he was eternally grateful. Mary got a sense of family, something he had wanted her to have all her life. It had even been brought up at the Court Hearing earlier that week where the paperwork had been signed awarding him legal guardianship status, the woman from the Child services department commenting in the court room that Mary had been gushing about Bill, Verity and Fliss, and seemed extremely settled.

Frank was simply relieved all of it was more or less over.

The last two weeks had been stressful as Greg had been handling the main discussions with the state for him and when they’d sat down one night to go over the notes for the settlement they had proposed, Greg told Frank that 2 major conditions would be set. Firstly that he found a home to allow Mary a room of her own and secondly that she was given access to a higher, more challenging form of education. After a bit of discussion with Mary, who had insisted she didn’t want to go to a posh school, Greg had done a little research into previous cases and come up with a suggestion that Child Services agreed with. They would provide a scholarship grant that would allow Mary to attend a number of University classes a few days a week and then her normal school the rest. It was a middle ground, giving Mary the mental stimulation she needed but also allowing her to be a normal kid. It was agreed she would return to normal school when term started in January and the arrangements would be made with the University to start there when their term picked up the middle of the same month. Frank had insisted that she wouldn’t be taking any exams or anything like that, just doing the work, keeping herself occupied. The judge had accepted the proposal, giving Frank 6 months to find alternative living arrangements, and had then awarded the Guardianship temporarily with the instruction it be awarded permanently upon a review in 6 months. So whilst not 100% complete, it was almost there, and Frank knew that as long as he did what they said, there would be no problem. The other good thing was nothing had legally been awarded to Evelyn, after she had remained completely absent from the proceedings. Which meant that if she did reach out, Frank would have total control over where and how often contact took place. Which suited him fine as he could ensure it was on Mary’s terms completely.

“Hey…you ok?” Fliss asked, rubbing his arm. He jerked round, realising he had been completely elsewhere and gave her a smile.

“Yeah, sorry, was just thinking.”

“Did it hurt?” Mary asked and Frank shot her a look as Fliss and Bill laughed as Mary left with the drink she had come in to the kitchen for.

Frank followed her into the living room as she perched on the large sofa next to Verity, the pair of them looking at something on the laptop.

“Behave.” Frank looked at Mary. “Go to bed when V and Bill tell you, no back chat or arguing…”

She saluted him and V looked up smiling. “Stop fussing Frank, she’s never any trouble.”

Frank nodded and then headed out to Bill’s Range Rover catching Fliss up.

“You do realise she’s gonna be up until midnight, pigging out on junk and watching movies right?” Fliss said as he reached her side, looping an arm round her waist.

“Yup.” Frank said “But she’s staying over there and not in the Annex, which means she’ll wake them up at stupid AM in the morning after no sleep and not us so I don’t much care…”

A little while later Frank guided her into Bongos Beach Bar and over to a booth at the far side. Fliss smiled as she recognised Greg, and Frank introduced her to his wife Zara, then his friend Jake and his fiancée Lisa. Finally she smiled at Simon who then excused himself heading off to meet his date at the door.

“Date?” Frank raised an eyebrow

“Yeah he’s been seeing her for about three weeks.” Zara supplied “He invited her tonight…”

“Huh, must be serious.” Frank mused and Jake looked at him.

“Could say the same about you.” He teased and Frank shoved him on the shoulder.

“Prick.”

Jake laughed and then raised his hand “They’re here now.”

Frank turned to see Simon making his way over towards them with a familiar brunette in tow.

Oh for fucks sake…

“Bonnie…” Fliss smiled at her as the woman stilled when she saw her and Frank.  

“You know each other?” Simon asked, frowning slightly.

“Yeah, errr…” Frank began, wondering how the hell he was going to get out of this when Fliss spoke up.

“Bonnie is, was, still is I suppose, Mary’s teacher.”

Bonnie shot her a grateful look and Fliss simply smiled as Simon made a noise of comprehension.

"I should have twigged!” Simon smiled, as they all took a seat at the booth. Zara handed out a few glasses of prosecco from the bottle that sat on the table to Bonnie and Fliss who both thanked her, the men grabbing a beer from the bucket.

“Thank you.” Frank whispered into Fliss’ ear as she turned to look at him. “I didn’t know he was seeing her, or that she was gonna be here, I promise…”

Fliss frowned and shrugged “It’s fine.” she said, almost as if she was puzzled as to why he was apologising. The confusion on his face must have shown as she smiled and lay her hand on his knee. “Frank, I don’t have a problem with Bonnie. I still think it was a stupid thing to do but…” she shrugged.

He smiled at her and dropped a kiss to her cheek. “You’re fucking amazing you know that?”

“Yep…” she popped the p, grinning at him as she took a drink from her champagne glass.

Fliss kept up with the conversation, but she soon realised that as nice as they were, Zara and Lisa were just not her type of people. With both their husbands having well paid jobs, as a lawyer and a bank manager, both were stay at home mums with a lot of money to spend and time on their hands. Plus they clearly spent a lot of time together so a lot of the chatter they made between themselves, leaving Fliss to simply listen.

At one point she glanced at Bonnie who was sat, nervously twisting her fingers together before she excused herself and headed over to the bathroom. Fliss gave it a few seconds before she too did the same, Frank moving so she could squeeze past him, hands falling to her hips as she went.

“Hey…” Fliss looked at Bonnie who was stood leaning on a sink. “You ok?”

“Yeah, I err, well, I don’t know about you but I feel a little out of place. I mean they’re nice enough but…“

"Kinda feels like we’re outsiders.” Fliss nodded finishing the sentence for her.

Bonnie snorted “I feel like they’re judging me a little. Like I’m a teacher…who has to work, and it’s not a great job…”

“Dude, I shovel shit for a living and Frank’s a grease monkey.” Fliss shot causing Bonnie to snort. “It’s not that at all, they’re just friends and we’re…well…”

 “Strangers…” Bonnie nodded.

“Exactly.” Fliss shrugged “Trust me, I’ve done the whole awkward social circle thing before, this…well, this is actually kinda nice in comparison. I met some real ass hats when I was with my ex. These guys are ok”

Bonnie smiled and then she grinned cheekily "Wanna go do tequila?”

“Fuck, yes.” Fliss nodded and they left the bathroom giggling, heading straight to the bar. Bonnie placed her order and slid a note over the bar as they both settled on a stool. Fliss glanced round to the booth where Frank was sat talking to the rest of his friends before she turned back to Bonnie who slid her a shot over. Without a word they both had their salt, downed the shot, then bit into the lemon, both grimacing and laughing as Fliss ordered another two and asked Bonnie what long drink she wanted. Turns out she was also a gin and tonic woman.

“I’m glad you and Frank ended up together.” Bonnie smiled at her. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks.” Fliss grinned. “Kinda crept up on me a little, you know? I wasn’t looking for anything but...”

“I’m glad me and him didn’t ruin it.” Bonnie said gently “That entire night was a huge mistake…I could tell the day after he regretted it.”

Fliss shrugged “Well we all do dumb shit.”

“Say that again.” Bonnie mumbled as their second shots arrived along with their gin.

“You know when he told me he’d told you it was a mistake I went mad at him.” Fliss snorted “I mean, talk about a shitty thing to say.”

“Oh that’s not the half of it, he-…” Bonnie trailed off and shook her head as she took a drink of her gin. “Forget it, doesn’t matter.”

“What?” Fliss pressed.

“Nope.” Bonnie shook her head firmly.

“You can’t just say that and not tell me!“ Fliss whined as Bonnie downed her shot, before she sighed

“He called me by your name, twice.”

Fliss choked on her gin, her eyes wide “What, when you…”

Bonnie nodded.

“Ok, so I feel like I should be apologising…” Fliss snorted, “Not sure what for but…” Bonnie chuckled as Fliss shook her head and continued “How did you not rip his cock off…I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m very glad you didn’t but…”

Bonnie laughed loudly as Fliss sprinkled more salt onto her hand “It’s not a big deal, he was mortified when I told him.”

“So he should be…” Fliss shook her head, as she picked up her tequila.

She turned to look at Frank who was now looking round the bar, questioningly. He spotted her at the bar and raised an eyebrow and she met him with a look of her own. “I’m dating an ass hole.” she said, turning back to Bonnie “He’s cute though.”

There was a pause before they both laughed, and Bonnie gestured to the empty glasses. Fliss shrugged and Bonnie, with a grin, ordered another 2 shots.

****

 “So, how’s the new job Frank?” Simon looked at him and Frank smiled, taking a pull from his bottle.

“I don’t start until January.” he swallowed his drink, “But yeah, looking forward to it. Full time wage, benefits…what’s not to like?”

“And a boss.” Greg said, and Frank laughed.

“Well, be kinda nice not to have to think about where the next job is coming from.” he shrugged, “I still get to do what I enjoy but less stress…”

Greg, Simon and Jake all exchanged a look which Frank didn’t miss. He gave a sigh. “What?”

“Nothing…”  Jake smirked “Just watching you finally growing up is bringing a tear to my eye. I mean, you brought a girl to our Christmas gathering, the first one ever…in the history of the Circle of Truth holding Christmas gatherings…”

“Yeah, I imagine this is what it’s like waving your kid off to university.” Simon nodded.

Frank raised his middle finger at them all, causing them to laugh.

“We’re only joking.” Simon winked at him. “In all seriousness, it’s nice to see.”

Frank shook his head “You make it sounds like I’m some kind of utter disaster case…”

They all paused and once again looked at each other. “Oh fuck you.” Frank snorted as they all laughed again.

Anyone seen the ladies?” Greg looiked around suddenly.

“Oh, I think Zara and Lisa are on the dance floor…” Jake nodded.

 Frank glanced round the bar, looking and saw that indeed they were but there was no sign of Fliss. Or Bonnie for that matter. Fliss had gone to the bathroom a while back but surely it couldn’t be that long to pee, even if you were a girl.

“Oh, looks like our girls are getting on…” Simon jerked his head to the bar. Frank turned in his seat and glanced over and saw Fliss laugh at something Bonnie said, before she licked a line of salt off her hand, downed the shot, and bit into the lemon. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or a little weirded out at how cool Fliss was around the woman he’d almost ruined his chances with her over, but as he watched her cutting loose, talking to Bonnie, the two women locked in a very friendly exchange he felt his chest warm. Fliss had openly admitted to him not long back she was a little lonely, her own friends being in England and the ones she had in Boston, well, they’d not really been her friends, more his. He supposed it was nice to see her with someone like that, even if it as one of his one night conquests. As he watched Fliss spluttered on her drink and looked at Bonnie, another exchange was had before Fliss picked up her next tequila and looked at him. He raised a questioning eyebrow but all she did was smirk and turn back to Bonnie. With a slight shrug he turned to Simon.

“Wanna join em?”

Simon nodded “Yeah, why not.

They excused themselves from the booth and headed over. Fliss smiled as Frank slid an arm round her waist and dropped a kiss to her neck, before Simon grinned and nodded as he added another 2 tequilas to their order.

Several more shots and gins later Fliss was drunk. So was Frank. Which was the reason the two of them had ended up on the outside beach dancefloor, dancing to some random Christmas shit. It was also the reason Frank’s denim button down was now un-done revealing his white sleeveless which he had on underneath, giving Fliss a perfect view of that collar bone tattoo she loved so much. It hadn’t surprised her in the slightest when he had explained where the words were from, being a man of philosophy and all that. She also loved the reason behind his Taurus tattoo, it being Mary’s zodiac sign. Basically her sailor underneath all his bravado was a huge sentimental sap. A huge, sentimental sap whose hands were once again now cupping her ass as they swayed together to the music. Fliss had long given up reaching around to restore them to the bottom of her back and simply smirked to herself slightly as she looked round the dancefloor and out across the dark ocean

“Still not right.” she murmured.

“What?”

“This…” she made an elaborate gesture with her arm and hit a guy next to her. “Whoops…sorry.” she grimaced as Frank snorted, the guy simply shrugged and carried on his way. “I mean…no snow at Christmas…”

“Yeah but, you’re outside, on a Christmas dancefloor, on the beach” he shrugged “I mean it’s kinda cool…”

“Suppose…” she shrugged, and then she paused, and Frank watched as a gorgeous grin spread across her face whilst she cocked her head to the music. It had just morphed into Fairy Tale of New York and she let out a whoop “I fucking love this one!”

There was a loud cheer from someone and suddenly the two of them were squashed together as Simon and Bonnie appeared, followed by the rest of the group and they found themselves in a circle,  arms tangled around shoulders, the girls singing the girls part and the boys singing the boys part. At one point someone dressed as Santa muscled into the middle of the group, simply giving a loud cheer before he exited and moved elsewhere, causing Fliss to snort hysterically, hanging onto Frank’s arm as she did. As the song ended, everyone belting out the last line the group descended into giggles and Frank just watched his girl. Her cheeks were flushed, hair was slightly frizzier now thanks to the humid outdoor air and she was absolutely the wrong side of wasted but god did he love that woman.

Oh.

He loved her.

Frank Adler, one time self-proclaimed bachelor, king of the Friday night fucks was in love. When did that happen?

As he watched her lean in and say something to Greg who burst out laughing he realised he couldn’t pin point it. It had crept up on him, like a slow burn, a deep fire in the very core of his belly. And damned did that fire feel hot.

Frank reached for his girl and pulled her away from Greg. She stumbled slightly into his arms and she looked up at him, giggling a little and he cut her off with a deep kiss. And before he could stop himself, he blurted it out, right there in the middle of a temporary beach dancefloor

“I love you.”

 If anyone else in the group had heard they were tactful enough to all turn away, pretending not to, but there’s no way they could have missed Fliss when she pulled back, a look of shock on her face which morphed into a grin and she pointed at Frank

“Youuuu loooooveeee meeee!” she sang and Frank felt himself blush.

“Yeah, do you hafta announce it to the entire of South Pass?” his Boston accent dripped off his tongue.

“Youuuu loooooooveeee meeee!” she said again and he groaned, pulling her closer. She leaned up so she could whisper into his ear, and damned the touch of her lips against his ear aroused him far more than was appropriate for the middle of a public dance floor.

“Wanna know a secret Sailor?” she asked. He turned his head to look at her and she smirked at him “I love you too.”

Well fuck.

Despite the fact they were both trashed, they both knew this wasn’t just a heat of the moment thing. Both felt it, both knew that whatever it was they had was different, special, a part of them now and Frank felt himself mimicking the stupid smile on her face. He leaned down to kiss her again, and her hands tangled into his hair, the feel of her delicate nails on his scalp sent hot pokers to his belly and his already half growing arousal was, well, aroused even more.

“And that’s even though you’re an asshole who calls someone else’s name during sex.” she pulled away. With a groan Frank hung his head as her arms linked around his neck, his hands locking behind her back.

“You know about that?” He asked with a little hiccup. “She told you?”

“Yup.” Fliss narrowed her eyes “And FYI you do that to me I’ll cut your balls off and feed them to Thor.”

“Harsh but fair.” Frank conceded after a short pause.  She grinned and leaned up to kiss him again before she pulled away.

“Can we go now ‘cause I’m kinda horny.”

Ok, so Drunk Fliss was another Fliss to add to his list of favourite Flisses. Along with Sassy, shy, stern, sleepy, just fucked, just woken up…basically all the Flisses

“Nope.” He teased “I’m good here.”

“Really?” She asked, pressing closer to him, tilting a little and he grunted as her hip bone pressed into his groin “Sure about that?”

“Yup.” He managed to squeak out.

“That must be a spanner in your pocket then. Or a screwdriver, or some other form of pointy tool…” She was hardly able to finish the sentence she was laughing that much.

“Yeah, those…damned pointy tools…” He shook his head as he leaned down to kiss her. It was sloppy, open mouthed, full of tongue and absolutely filthy and left the pair of them in a bit of a daze. Frank pulled away and looked around, taking a deep breath “Ok, we can go now.”

Somehow they made it home in one piece. It took Fliss three attempts to get the key in the lock, the pair of them giggling like a couple of school kids, before she finally managed it and Frank leaned over and pushed the door open. Fliss stumbled slightly and Frank caught her, laughing.

“Shhh” He said.

“What for?” She asked, kicking off her shoes.

He paused for a moment and then shrugged “Actually I don’t know…”

“Idiot…” She sniggered, pushing his undone shirt down his arms before pulling at the bottom of his sleeveless underneath. He moved so she could pull it over his head and as her fingers started to undo the button at the top of his jeans he reached round and gently found the zipper on her jumpsuit, sliding it down, his fingers gently skimming her back as they backed to the couch. Fliss fell over the arm with a thud, Frank following, before the momentum tripped him and he rolled onto the floor, pulling her with him, landing with a thud on his back. She fell on top of him, her elbow catching him in the ribs and he gave a loud huff, before she laughed and leaned over kissing him. His hands tangled into her hair, keeping her head angled perfectly, the kiss searing, leaving them breathless. Fliss pulled back and he brushed her hair back with both his hands, smiling softly at her.

“I meant what I said you know.” He looked at her

“Remind me again what that was.” She teased.

“I…” he leaned up and pecked her lips “love…” another peck “you.”

“Tell me when you’re sober.” she sassed back and gave a squeal as he whipped her over so she was on her back on the rug by the coffee table, framed between his strong arms and legs.

“In vino veritas.” He quipped and she propped herself up on her elbows, the front of her jumpsuit fell forward slightly and Frank blatantly stole a look down it at her lacy strapless bra, giving a groan.

 “Yeah, and in vino a load of non-sensitas too…” She grinned and he gave a snort, as he dipped his head.

“Shut up.” he mumbled, his lips pressing onto hers again.

 *****

 Frank groaned, blinking against the light that was streaming in through the crack in the curtains. Jesus Christ his head hurt. Rolling over he was met with a face full of hair and he blew it out of the way, smoothing down Fliss’s wild locks which were splayed all over the pillow. Gently sliding an arm under her neck he dropped the other one round her bare waist and pulled her into him, her back pressing to his chest as he snuggled close, screwing his eyes closed against the painful daylight.

“What year is it?” Fliss groaned and Frank chuckled slightly.

“Feeling rough, baby?”

“Rough?” She croaked “I feel like I have a smurf in my head with a pick axe. This is all your fault.”

“My fault?“

“Yes you let me drink tequila with Bonnie.”

“Ok, first off I didn’t know you were doing that until I saw you at the bar…”

“Yeah, and then you and Simon joined in…

“…and second off, you’re a grown ass woman. You make your own decisions.”

She groaned again and then stilled “Fuck, we had sex last night…”

“Wow.” Frank laughed. “Way to ruin my pride, Sweetheart…”

“No I mean…” she shuffled onto her back and looked at him. “Did we…use…“

Franks eyes went wide. "Oh, erm…”

No, no they hadn’t… fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I mean, come on, surely, we’ll be fine right?” he asked, “I mean, one time…what are the chances of…”

“No, it’s not that I’m worried about.” she shook her head “I’m on the pill…I just..” she trailed of

Frank propped himself up on his elbow as he cottoned on to what she was saying “Are you being serious?” he snorted.

“Well I don’t know where you’ve been!” she shrugged indignantly “well, ok, maybe I know some of where you’ve been, but…”

Frank snorted and shook his head “What do you take me for?”

“An ex ho?” she shot back immediately.

He fell onto his back laughing “If you must know I’ve never had unprotected sex with a one night stand in my life. And the other week I went and got tested, just for you. And I’m clean so…”

“That’s so romantic. ” she grinned at him.

“Well I try.” he raised an eyebrow.

“Still love me?” she quipped and he turned his head to look at her.

“Fraid so.”

“Too bad.” she teased, shuffling over to him “Coz that means you’re stuck with me…”

“Oh no…” he said sarcastically as he turned onto his side, glancing down at her bare breasts “How will I ever cope?”

“Sure you’ll think of a way.” she arched an eyebrow before she suddenly went green. “Oh shit…” she mumbled, before she shot out of the bed and into the bathroom.

Frank listened to her barfing and snorted a laugh before he swung himself out of bed, glad to find his boxers on the floor by his feet. Although where the rest of his clothes where he had no idea. He knocked on the bathroom door.

“You ok?”

He heard the toilet flush and she emerged, wrapped in a robe and looked at him. “I’m never drinking tequila again. Ever.”

Frank had to hand it to his girl, despite her raging hangover she still managed to teach four classes of kids that day, and made it through to nine that evening before she completely crashed on the sofa, falling asleep as the three of them sat in the apartment living room watching The Grinch, Mary’s choice. As the film finished at little after ten, Mary, who was lounging on Frank’s lap looked over to where Fliss lay, her head resting on the other arm of the couch, her feet nestled under his thigh, and nudged Frank.

“I know.” He smiled softly “Leave her be.”

Mary grinned and reached up to run her hand through his beard “you love Fliss.”

He looked at her for a second, eyebrow raised “What makes you say that?”

 “Roberta.” she shrugged.

Frank snorted. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

“Did you tell her yet?” Mary looked at him.

“Yeah.”

“What did she say?”

“That she loves me too.”

Mary grinned “Lissy and Frank, sitting in a tree…”

He rolled his eyes as she chanted off the rest of the ridiculous rhyme and then looked at her. “You finished?”

“Yup.”

“Good, bed time.”

“Awww Frank….”

“No arguments. Bill told me what time you stayed up till last night.”

“Grass.” she narrowed her eyes.

“Yeah, you better believe it. Go on, wash your face, clean your teeth.”

“Shower?”

“Quit stalling Stack you had one when you got back from the stables…”

With a groan she pushed herself off his knee and he stood up as she headed into the bathroom. He pulled a fresh pair of pyjamas out of the clean pile of laundry he needed to sort that was on the chair at the back of the room and lay them on his bed before he moved over and knelt down by Fliss’ head.

“Honey,” he said gently, pushing her hair back off her face, “Lissy…“

She made a noise as she wrinkled her nose, and he smiled as she blinked and looked at him.

“Oh, shit. Sorry…” she yawned as she realised she’d fallen asleep. “What time is it?“

“Not too late.” He smiled “Just about to put Mary to bed. You staying here or…”

“Yeah if that’s okay?”

“Course it is.” he smiled and dropped a kiss to her lips before she sat up running her hand through her hair as she blinked, yawning again.

“Fuck I’m so tired.” She stood up, stretched and then smiled as Mary came back into the room. The girl shot Frank a filthy look and stalked past him into his room. “Ok, wow…”

“She doesn’t want to go to bed.” he shrugged, “moody little madam.”

Fliss laughed as she headed into the bathroom. Frank sat down on the sofa and a little while later, Mary emerged and shot straight for her bed.

“Can I at least read?” she looked at him.

“Ten minutes, tops, whilst I do the dishes…”

She grinned and he turned off the TV and headed into the kitchen, clearing away the remains of their takeaway, stowing the left overs in the fridge for lunch the day after.

In the bathroom Fliss was busy groaning to herself as she realised she’d come on. She knew she was due, but still, this was a pain in the ass. Sorting herself out, she washed her hands and walked into the kitchen. Frank looked up and raised his eyebrow, misinterpreting the look on her face.

“You been sick again?” he asked.

“No… ” She shook her head as she bit her lip. “Look, Frankie, I think I’m go home…”

“Why?” He frowned.

“I errr…” She flushed “I forgot…I…” she trailed off and his frown deepened as her hand moved instinctively to her stomach before a look of realisation crossed his features.

“Oh…” He nodded. “Well, ok, if you’re more comfortable going home then that’s up to you.” He dropped a kiss to her head and she looked at him, confusion flooding her brain.

“You don’t want me to go?”

“Why would I want you to go?” he frowned.

“Because…” she looked at him, unable to voice what she was getting at. Another memory flooded her mind, one of John screaming at her for the sheets being marked, she was jerked back to the here and now as Frank closed the distance between them, tipping her head up to look at him.

“Lissy, talk to me…”

“Sorry, I err…” she rubbed at her head “He used to make me sleep in a separate room.”

“Are you for real?” Frank blurted out, and she could see the anger flooding his system. “Seriously?”

She visibly recoiled a little at his tone and Frank cursed himself as she looked at him, eyes wide as she began to apologise.

 “Hey.” He said gently, reaching out to her. “Stop. You’ve nothing to be sorry for I shouldn’t have shouted I just….” He took a deep breath.

“That’s fucked up.”

She looked back up at him, her eyes now had a fierce spark. “You think that’s fucked up? When he was trying to get me pregnant, every month he’d stop me taking pain killers when I came on. Told me it was my own fault for not managing to conceive.”

“Jesus Liss…” Frank shook his head, as she shrugged, her head turning to the side. “Baby…”

“Don’t” she shrugged “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“Ok.” he nodded. “Look. If you wanna stay then it’s up to you. Whatever you wanna do.”

“I do.” She nodded, smiling softly.

“Good.” He dropped a kiss to her forehead before he moved away from her and reached over, filling the kettle.

“What are you doing?” She asked from behind him.

“Making you a tea.” He shrugged “Used to help Diane…”

“Thanks…” she smiled after a short pause.

“You got everything you need or you need to go the store?”

“I’m good. Ex Girl Scout, always prepared…”

Frank gave a laugh.

“Think I might take another shower though, if that’s…”

“You don’t need to ask.” He looked at her. “You’re my girlfried. I want you to feel like you’re at home when you’re here.”

At that she gave him a soft smile as she moved over and wrapped her arms round his waist, nuzzling into his chest. He gently rubbed at her back, before she leaned up, kissed him and headed out. The kettle boiled and he leaned on the side, dropping his head slightly. What kind of fucked up asshole did that to his own wife? To a wife he was supposed to love and protect no less. It broke his heart to think anyone could be so callous, so mentally and physically abusive to someone so soft, so gentle, so damned amazing….he looked up as he saw her making her way into the bathroom, bag in hand and she smiled at him, shutting the door.

Once he’d made them both a hot drink and grabbed the Advil, he made his way through to his room, placing one mug on the bedside table on the side he slept on and then another on the sill behind Fliss’ side and leaned on the doorframe, looking at Mary. She was still reading.

“Please just the end of this chapter.” she held up the Harry Potter book. Frank took a deep breath, then decided fuck it. She’d fall asleep at some point, there was no school.

“Lights off after that. I’ll be out to check.” he instructed as he dropped a kiss to her head. “Night Stack.”

“Night Frank.”

Back in his room he stripped off, tossing his t-shirt into the hamper before folding his jeans and dropping them on his dresser. He settled on the bed, stretching his legs out as he kicked the duvet down and flicked on the small TV, flipping through the channels looking for something to watch. Grinning when he found an episode of Family Guy, he turned the volume down low and had been watching for about five minutes when he heard Fliss talking to Mary who mentioned something about the book before he heard her bid her good night, and as Fliss opened the door he saw Mary’s light flip off.

He smiled at his girl who had her hair pulled back in a braid and was dressed in a pair of bed shorts and a tight camisole type top, her shoulders bare, long legs stretched as she dropped onto the bed besides him.

“You okay?” he asked, dropping a kiss to her shoulder as she reached round for the drink. She paused as she saw the Advil and then picked it up, smiling at him as she turned to face him.

“Yeah.” she assured him as he kissed the bridge of her nose. She tossed down two pain killers and sipped her drink, her legs bent in front of her as they sat in a comfortable silence, watching the TV, both laughing softly at the show. Eventually she placed the mug down and snuggled closer to him. He reached down for the duvet and pulled it up round their legs as her head lay on his chest, his arm falling round her, fingers lightly brushing down the back of her neck, shoulder and then up again. It was an action he knew she found comforting, and he was proven right as little over fifteen minutes later he looked down to find her fast asleep.

With a soft smile he turned off the TV and gently moved her so that they were both lay flat and she gave a soft hum of contentment and snuggled into him closer. With a yawn he pressed a kiss to her head and closed his eyes.

The rest of the two weeks remaining to Christmas was spent in a whirl of tree-decorating, paper-chain making, shopping and eating more crap than Fliss had thought humanly possible. Steve and his wife Sian arrived on the 22nd and Verity cooked a huge family dinner where Mary was introduced to their twin boys. Frank watched her with interest, they were both her age and he was pleasantly surprised to see she actually seemed to mingle with them quite well. Steve was also noticeably warmer towards him too, which was a relief, and Frank was more than happy to take him out for a beer with Bill one evening whilst the women stayed at home and wrapped presents whilst drinking copious amounts of champagne. A Gallagher tradition Frank was informed, a tradition he eagerly told Bill he could fully get on board with, especially when Fliss had offered to wrap Mary’s presents as well.

 By the time Christmas Eve rolled round Frank noticed that Fliss was ridiculously excited and was happy to admit it was because she was looking forward to spending it with him and her family. When Verity had invited him to join them for Christmas dinner he’d been reticent to accept at first, not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t want to put her out. When she’d told him she’d be more offended if he refused he’d relented and made the mistake of telling Mary who hadn’t let the subject drop for the last two weeks. Fliss joined them in their traditional Christmas Eve celebration with Roberta, where they exchanged gifts, Roberta made up with the chunky silver bangle Fliss had spotted in a shop and the photo frame which Mary had made one evening with Bill by glue-gunning sea shells onto a plain wooden one she had gotten from Target. Once they were done, they packed Fliss’ jeep up and headed off to the annex. After watching “Elf” in the cinema room with the rest of the family,  wearing her new Christmas Pyjamas (another Gallagher tradition that all the kids in the family got new ones to sleep in on Christmas Eve)  they three of them headed back over to the annex and Mary shot up to bed with no fuss at all, leaving Frank and Fliss to enjoy the rest of their evening which they spent making out like a pair of horny teenagers on the couch until they’d ended up fucking like a pair of horny teenagers on the couch too.

Christmas morning Fliss cracked open an eye and grinned as she sat up, listening to Mary who was calling from the spare room, before she started to sing We Wish You A Merry Christmas, which was punctuated by barks from Thor. Besides her Frank gave a groan and she nudged him.

“Wake up scrooge.”

“Fuck off.” he mumbled.

She laughed and nudged him again before she climbed out of bed, wearing his T-shirt and pulled a pair of denim shorts on “I reckon you got about two minutes before Mary barrels through the door…”

"Fucking Christmas…” Frank scoffed, but Fliss caught the smile on his face as he swung his legs out of bed and stretched, the muscles on his back rippling as he did so. Standing up Fliss watched as he moved, his ass looking pretty damned fine in his boxers as he headed to the bathroom, banging on the spare room door as he did. Fliss heard it fly open and a few minutes later Mary came shooting into her room and bounced on the bed, a half-eaten chocolate Santa in her hand which she had unwrapped from her Stocking. Thor followed, taking up position on the foot of the bed and Fliss hugged Mary, grinning. She loved Christmas, she always had done as a kid. Granted, it hadn’t always been fun with he-who-shall-not-be-named, but the last two since leaving him she’d gotten that childish excitement back, and today was no exception.

“So, I just stand here do I?” Frank asked as he leaned on the doorway, gesturing to the now full bed. Fliss grinned at him and shrugged.

“We’re not staying here.” Mary looked at him “We got presents to open downstairs…”

“Hmmm not sure we do.” Frank teased as he pulled a shirt from his bag in the corner of the room “I mean, does Santa know you’re here and not at the apartment?”

Mary rolled her eyes “I haven’t believed in Santa since I was five, Frank.”

“What?” Fliss looked horrified “I still believe and I’m like thirty three!” Mary gave her a scathing look. Fliss shrugged. “What can I say, I believe in Christmas magic”

“I did…” Mary shrugged “Until he didn’t bring me a puppy.”

“He doesn’t do live animals.” Fliss reasoned.

“Or a piano.”

“Too big to fit on the sleigh.”

“Or an algebra book I wanted.”

“Yeah, why the hell would he bring you maths books?” Fliss snorted “That’s school work.”

“I like it. "she shrugged, before she shoved the rest of her chocolate in her mouth and jumped up, bouncing on the bed. "Come on! Get up!”

Thor looked up giving a huff as Frank told her to stop bouncing. She flopped down and looked at him, folding her arms and Fliss laughed.

“Ok, let’s go!”

The two of them raced down the stairs, Frank following as Mary burst into the living room to see her presents piled by the sofa, and her eyes immediately went to the large wooden box which wasn’t wrapped that had her name painted on the side, and a large painted white pony on the top, resembling Monty. She moved to it and opened it, giving a squeal as she began to pull out the various grooming products that Fliss had bought her to make her own little pony box.  As Mary began to hastily rip the wrapping paper off the rest of the pile of gifts, Frank moved to the tree and pulled out two boxes. One large, one small.

“Merry Christmas baby girl.” he said, dropping a kiss to Fliss mouth. She grinned and sat down on the couch, opening the little box first. Inside was a silver necklace a pendant in the shape of a Daisy which Fliss beamed at.

“I love daisies!” she smiled at him “They remind me of home.”

“I know.” he smiled as she looked at it again before she moved to the next box. This was the one Frank was excited about. They’d cost him a small fortune but, turns out when you don’t spend every Friday night in Ferg’s you actually saved a fair bit of dough. Who knew?

“Oh my God…” she whispered as she cleared the paper away from the contents and glanced down at the tan Cowboy boots. She took a deep breath as she picked one out of the box to examine the detailing on the leather before her eyes widened as she saw her name ‘Lissy’ stitched on the top.

“Do you like them?” he asked softly, although he could tell from her reaction that was a stupid question.

“Frankie…” she looked at him with tears in her eyes, God this man really did listen to every damned word she said.  “I can’t…” she leaned over and gave him a kiss. “Thank you…”

He smiled as she slipped them on and stood up, giving Mary a twirl. There was something about her wearing them along with denim shorts that Frank wasn’t ashamed to admit he found a little arousing.

Frank laughed when he got his presents from Fliss, a new Paul Smith shirt, a Red Sox Cap and a new Samsung Smartphone as she informed him his Nokia had gone out of fashion in 2009. Which was before Mary was born, she pointed out. But it was the gifts they both got from Mary that surprised and reduced them to tears of laughter.

Fliss held up the cowboy hat, grinning from ear to ear as she slipped it on whilst Frank held the white Navy Captain’s hat up and shook his head. “Where on Earth did you get these?” he asked, laughing.

“Bill helped me.” Mary shrugged, looking up from where she was now jamming a pink Ariat baseball cap which she had just unwrapped on her head.

“Remind me to thank him later!” Frank rolled his eyes as Fliss snatched the hat from him and stuck it on his head.

“Mary, get in…” she patted Frank’s knee and Mary hopped up, as Fliss held her phone away from them, snapping a selfie of the three of them. Frank watched her as she smiled, inspecting it and he had to admit it was a pretty good snap. All of them were smiling, all wearing some form of head gear, and for the first time in as long time he realised he was enjoying Christmas morning because HE was having a good time, not just Mary. To him it normally meant a fuck load of expense and the fact another year was rapidly drawing to a close. But he was more than happy to draw a close on 2017. Not simply to shut the door on a mentally draining court fight, but also because he was looking forward to the future. He was starting a new job, would be in the market for a new home and moving through all of those changes with his girl by his side excited him instead of filling him with dread.

As Mary slid off his knee to examine another present he turned to Fliss who grinned, knocking his hat off his head.

“Merry Christmas cowgirl.” he grinned,

She smiled, leaning over to kiss him “Merry Christmas Sailor!”

**** One Shot- Whamaggeddon Chapter 13

[jazzywrites]

Back in time part 2

Hey guys hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Castiel x non-gender specific reader

Warning: baby winchesters

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Y/n pov

Y/n sat in the back of the Impala, soft clicking came from Sam’s fingers as he typed. He’s been searching the witch the entire car ride. Which has felt like an eternity, sitting here doing nothing but answer the small questions that Sam had.

The silence started to itch at Y/n. Feeling annoyed the sat up, leaning over the front bench for the radio. They click it on and AC/DC started up as they sat back in their chair.

“You listen to AC/DC?” Dean asked with such admiration. Y/n snorted at the happiness that took the older Winchester.

“Kinda have to. You listen to one album over and over,” they smile at the bitch face they received from the review mirror.

“It’s so weird that you know us, but we don’t know you.” Dean stated while he shifted in his seat awkwardly.

“Yeah, it is” Y/n responded as they looked out the window, seeing that it had started raining.

“I never asked, what year is it?” They asked as they looked over at Sam when he tensed in his seat.

“2010,” Dean said calmly as he took a left on the road. Y/n nodded as they fiddled with their fingers.

“Lucifer, huh?” Y/n’s heart started wrench knowing Sam’s outcome by the end of the year.

“Yeah, him,” Sam mumbled as he pretended to continue searching even though Y/n knew he was done.

“You know what’s gonna happen. Mind enlightening us? We are kind of confused about what to do next.” Dean asked, looking at Y/n through the review mirror.

Y/n let out a strong sigh as they sat up in their seat uncomfortably.

“I want to tell you,” Dean looked at them with furrowed eyebrows, “I want to, trust me. But if I do, it might fuck up outcomes that might interfere with us from meeting each other.” Y/n shook their head as they continued. “I can’t risk that, I’m sorry Sam,” y/n said with such heartbreak.

Sam whipped his head back with a shocked face.

“What?! What happens!?” He shouted startling Y/n with the loudness of his voice.

A whoosh of wings cuts Y/n off from making any excuse that came into their head the quickest. Y/n looked over and there was Castiel. Two fingers lifted and landed on Sam’s head, making him pass out. The giant man fell headfirst into Dean’s lap.

“What the hell, Cas!” Dean shouted as he pulled over on the side of the road. Y/n had ventured to the other door, giving a wide width of space between them.

“Y/n will not give any information about the future. It will ruin the order.” Cas’ voice rough and demanding as he gave a glance to Dean then Y/n.

“Sam is okay. He will not remember the last 5 minutes of your conversation.” Cas enlightened as he looks at Y/n. He gave a head tilt when he fully looks at them.

“What?” Y/n said with roughness at the angel staring. He continued to stare not taking notice of the uncomfortable human.

“How did you find us, Cas. Thought our ribs were carved. Since Y/n/n here is from the future, their ribs should be carved too.” Dean asked as he drove back onto the road.

“They are carved,” Cas said with bluntness and no information whatsoever.

“Okay, enlightened us how you found us then, dumbass.” The annoyance in Dean’s voice was clear as day.

Y/n took in a deep breath, knowing full well why he found them so easily.

“Dean, we are soulmates. He can find me with ease. Like an itch in the back of his brain at all times,” Y/n explained while still staring at the beautiful angel. In the middle of Y/n's statement, the angel had stopped staring and was now looking at his fingers awkwardly.

“Thought angels don’t have souls,” Dean mentioned while pulling up to a motel and parking Baby by the entrance.

“Figurative speech, darling.” Y/n said smiling when Dean cautiously took Sam’s head off his lap when he exited Baby.

They got their room, 2 beds, and a pull-out. Dean went and tried to wake up Sam but obviously he didn’t. Dean glanced at Cas making the angel roll his eyes. Cas walked over and picked up Sam bridal style with ease.

They walked into their motel, y/n sat on the couch on the left of the front door. To the left of the couch was a small wall blocking the two beds. On the right side of the door was a small table and a chair. A small tv on a nightstand that stood in front of the two beds. Left side of the beds was a small closet and a bathroom.

Cas placed Sam on the bed closest to the bathroom. He sat up straight and turn to see Dean looking at him with confusion. He reciprocated the confusion giving his signature cute head tilt.

Dean shook his head and began, “don’t you wanna take Y/n on a lil vacation to Zachariah?” Y/n stood up at the sound of their name. They leaned their side on the little wall separating the beds from the couch.

“Yeah, what happened to that, Cassie?” Y/n couldn’t seem to stop the nickname from escaping their mouth. Cas didn’t seem to mind as he stood up straighter hearing the questions.

“Don’t you still got orders from Doctor dick bag?” Y/n asked as they walk passed both boys to Sam. The sadness in their eyes returned looking at the sleeping man. They sat by his shoulder reaching out to comb their fingers through his hair. Poor Sam.

“I do,” Cas started tensing up at his realization of disobedience.

“Yeah, what happened. Stopped listening to the narcissist?” Dean asked taking a beer from his duffel bag. Y/n was kinda amazed that it was still in tacked.

“I am just not,” it was hard for Cas to find the words for his sentence. This situation made Y/n sort as they lifted from Sam’s bed looking at the younger version of their boyfriend.

“Able?” They asked with a smirk. Cas’ head bowing down to look at his feet. His disappointment clear in his features.

“Happens when you love someone, Cassie.” Y/n smiled as they walked over to the almost fallen angel. They got close enough to be able to grab his trench coat and fix it. Situating the collar to look nicer.

“I-,” Cas started but Dean cut them off with a small cough as he took a sip of his beer.

“I think instead of the lovey dicey shit we should get Y/n back to their time. Older version of us must be worried.” Dean explained walking over to Sam’s laptop that he brought in. It was sitting on the little table. Dean took a seat, opening the laptop.

“Yeah,” Y/n said slowly as they smiled at the awkward blue-eyed angel.

“Cas can you zap them back, or no?” Dean asked as he scrolled through the computer’s information.

“No, this witch is powerful. But she is in this time.” Cas said walking over to Dean and looked over his shoulder.

“Well, that’s good. We can kill her,” Y/n smile walking over to Dean’s duffle bag, taking out his gun. They took out the magazine to look at the bullets. Seeing the silver bullets Y/n smile.

“Werewolf?” Y/n asked with comfortability, looking over to Dean. He glanced over with a quick smile and a nod.

“Been too busy with angels haven’t used my gun in a while,” Dean explained as he typed on his computer.

“Hey, Cas, can you do your angel mojo to teach down the witch? You said she was powerful, can be detected in your state of angel power, right?” Y/n question as she gave a glance at Sam. He had moved since the last time they looked at him. He was laying Superman-style on his stomach.

“I can, but she has to be in the middle of using her powers,” Cas informed. He stood straighter to look at Y/n better.

Yeah, of course, she has to,” Y/n said with irritation. Walking over to Dean, they took the computer and proceeded to type what they recall.

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Older Winchester pov

Dean was pacing around the bunker. It has been almost a day and they have nothing.

“Hey, this is new, ” Sam piped up looking closer at his screen. Dean came running, looking over his brother’s shoulder.

“Okay she killed in 2010, what does that gotta do with Y/n?” Dean asked backing away from Sam and proceeded his pacing.

“Because this wasn’t here before. She started killing in 2016, not 2010.” Sam informed him, showing off his screen.

“So you’re saying they time traveled?” Dean inquired as he continues to read the bright computer screen.

“Yeah, and the witch got stuck in the power ball,” Sam wrinkles his brow to look at the screen but not reading it. Ranking his brain to remember what happened in 2010.

“Dean, if they are in 2010 that means Lucifer is walking.” Sam looked up at him with an anxious face that was reciprocated by his bigger brother.

They were interrupted when the bunker door swung open, revealing their angel friend. He was hysterical as he fled down the stairs, running past the war table into the library where everyone was.

“Is Y/n okay?!” He shouted at the worried-looking boys.

“We don’t know. Cas, I’m sorry,” Sam sighed and stood up to walk to Cas.

“We do think they were sent back in time,” Dean started to explain. They told Cas the information that they have came up with.

“So, they are stuck in a time when there was going to be an Apocalypse?! Lucifer and Micheal?!” Cas started to hyperventilate, the feeling in his stomach made him want to hurl.

“We have to go back!” Cas cried out at the boys with urgency.

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Hey! Sorry that it’s gonna be a series. Weirdly enough it was supposed to be a one shot, but whatever.

Tell me if you enjoyed!💕✨

-Jax

[caranfindel]

Recap/review 15.17: “Unity”

THEN: Chuck is destroying all his worlds. Dean tricked Amara into going along with their plan. Empty!Meg is on Billie's side because she just wants to go back to sleep. (Don't we all, dear.) Billie wants Dean to be ready. Dean finally told Sam the truth and Sam was MAD.

NOW: Amara is enjoying a hot pool and a glass of wine in Reykjavik, Iceland. (She's pretending to read but there's no way she can see that book. Although I guess she could have super vision. Why not? And I'm sure the book itself is significant and maybe I'll look that up later but let's face it, I probably won't.) Her glorious view of the Milky Way is punctuated by what seems to be a falling star. But there are more and more and more and she knows what it really is. "Welcome home, brother."

Title card!

Bunker. Sam is on the phone with Cas, who just found out a possible lead in the "Basilica of Guadalupe" was useless. I wonder if he means the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico? A 35-hour drive from Lebanon? "That's all right," Sam says. "We'll find a way." {Sidebar: Eternal optimism or simple bullheaded refusal to accept the inevitable truth? Discuss.} Dean enters and asks if that was Cas, but Sam doesn't answer.

So, this is how it's gonna be? You're gonna give me the silent treatment?

I'm not sure what you want me to say.

That you get it. Like I said, killing Amara, Jack, dying, that's the only way.

Sam huffs and imitates Dean: "The only way. Our one shot. Our last chance. You ever get tired of saying stuff like that?" The guys are interrupted by a noise, and I'm just going to stop here for a minute, because I need to talk about Sam's anger. Sam's delicious anger. Apparently some people thought it was inappropriate for Sam to be so mad at Dean last week. At least that's what I read on the Tumblr. I'm sure no one reading this post feels that way. I mean, anyone who found Sam's anger inappropriate would have stopped reading my crap a long time ago, right? I just don't get it. This isn't an "I can see both sides" situation. Dean withheld information from Sam - lied to Sam - and I know they've both lied to each other before, but this was something catastrophic involving someone he loves. And when confronted, Dean doubled down. He didn't say "sorry, I just couldn't bear to tell you" or "I was hoping Cas would find some other way" or "I was trying to think of a way to break it to you easy." He blamed Sam. He told Sam he wasn't qualified to have that information because he would have done something about it. And after Dean spent the entire episode whining about having no control over his life, being a hamster in a wheel, he sentenced Sam to the same fate - he told him that he didn't have the right to know about Jack because he refused to just accept that this is their destiny.

I mean, I'm not bitter or anything.

Silver lining: Dean treating Sam so horribly at least means I got some tasty, tasty Angry Sam. (Mandatory disclaimer: I love Dean. I love that he is heroic and self-sacrificing but also deeply, deeply flawed.) Moving on.

Wait. I also love that Sam's justification for the silent treatment isn't I'm punishing you or even I'm mad at you, but is literally there is nothing I can say to you. Nothing I say will mean anything to you. All right, now we're moving on. Searching for the source of the noise, the guys find - Amara! Drinking their beer! Wearing pink again, but this time it's sparkly! "We should talk," she says.

Or, you know, we could just look. Looking is good. We have a little time jump in order to gather Jack. Amara tells the boys that her brother is back, and Jack knows this means it's time. She asks how they're going to cage Chuck, and Dean lies that Jack will be able to do it. Amara hopes she and Jack can get to know each other afterward, and Jack lies that they will. He just has to complete one final ritual. Sam doesn't lie to anybody; he just stands there looking unhappy. Amara asks what she can do to help, and they cut away from any discussion of what she's going to do, but then we get this. When the time comes, we can count on you, right? Like I told you when we first met, you and I will always help each other. Awkward! The way Amara is looking at Dean, I'm pretty sure she knows he's lying, and is just waiting for him to break down. (Spoiler alert: why do I even try?) But Dean and his lying, lying eyes do not break down.

But those eyes don't exactly hide any secrets either, do they? Meanwhile, Jack is concerned that Sam is angry at him. Or disappointed. Sam manages to express both support for Jack doing the thing and a strong desire for Jack to not do the thing. "Sacrificing your life for a cause takes a lot of courage," he says."I still think it's wrong, though." OH SAM. YOU WOULD KNOW. AND YOU WOULD DO IT ANYWAY. Apparently Jack's final ritual is taking place in Santa Fe. Dean's ready to go, and says they can be there by morning. (Oh, I hope she tells us if that's possible, they said sarcastically.) Hey, anyone who doesn't want a deep dive into the logistics of Winchester travel can write their own damn recap skip this part. I think the guys actually went to Santa Fe last season? Ouroboros? Anyway, it's 10.5 hours away. 11 hours if you avoid highways, which we know Dean likes to do, although that route would take you on some mountain roads that would probably be a little much for the Impala. So yeah, depending on what time it is now, "by morning" is doable. I know you're relieved. I think the bigger question is when will Cas get back from Mexico City? (Yes, I'm sure he drove - he was standing by his blue truck. Yes, I know no one else cares.) Dean is surprised to find that Sam's not going. He accuses Sam of "taking a knee," but Sam says that's not what he's doing. He's still looking for another way. Sam, you and me, we have to do this; it's in the book. Oh, Chuck's death book, right? Come on, man! Blindly following orders, sending Amara to her death; does any of this feel right to you? It doesn't matter how we feel! You know what? Stay. Stay. But somebody's got to be the grownup here. Yeah, well, someone has to keep fighting for Jack. He knows what he signed up for! Last I checked, we don't give up on family. Jack's not family! I know how you feel about the kid, okay? I feel for him too. I do. But he's not like you. He's not like Cas. He's just not. I have to confess, I maaaayyyybeee haven't been keeping up with the A plot as much as I should have, because I wasn't aware they were actually operating from a book. (Or I was and I forgot. Stranger things have happened.) I thought this was just Billie's plan. But if it's a book, that means it was fated to happen, right? Um, like the Ma'lak box? And why isn't Sam pointing that out? Why isn't Sam saying "we've already changed one of Billie's unchangeable endings, what makes you think we can't change this one?" But, you know. That's not important. What is important are two things: 1, the way Sam reacts when Dean says "Jack's not family," and B, the fact that Jack has entered the room at some point and heard some of that. Again, awkward! How many times has Jack come up behind someone and overheard something like that? Why don't they put a bell on that poor kid? Jack says he's ready, Sam gives him a sad, broken little smile and Jack and Dean hit the road. Boy, that's gonna be an uncomfortable 11 hours.

Whatever you think about this scene, you have to admit Jared is acting the hell out of it. Bunker. Cas is back, so I guess it's been 35 hours since that phone call. "Stayed behind to find another way, huh? I would have done the same." They research together. Wooded park. Amara. Chuck shows up. A title card weirdly informs us this is Amara. Yeah, we know that. I don't really care that much about their convo. All you need to know is he wants to do a "hard reset" - another Big Bang? - and can't do it without her. But she cares about this world now and wants to protect it. He thinks humans are lame and boring, and she says "what about your first children?" and zaps him into Heaven. He's welcomed by a small, adoring group of angels, but Crystal (an angel named Crystal?) annoys him so much that he snaps them all away. Amara offers him balance, darkness and light, here on this Earth, but he's not interested. So she zaps him into the bunker, which she has made into a trap for him. Impala. Dean, says the title card, unnecessarily. (Now that I've figured out what they're doing, I'd say the odds are 50:50 that Sam will have a title card.) Dean starts to talk about what Jack heard - not necessarily to apologize, but Jack says he understands that he's not like Sam or Cas. Okay then. Morning. They show up at a jewelry store and are greeted enthusiastically by the man and woman inside. "I'm Adam," the man says. "You know. God's primo. First dude off the assembly line." The woman with him is not Eve, but a hippie angel named Seraphina. I guess that means she's a seraph? Get it? (Sorry, I have to amuse myself sometimes.) She proclaims Jack's aura is "like Skittles," and of course it is. What else would it be like, other than something sweet and rainbow-colored? {Sidebar: Or should it be like nougat? Discuss.} Adam and Seraphina are very into Jack and also very much into each other. They separate long enough for Adam to take Jack for a "pop quiz." Seraphina says she knows Jack will pass because she saw it in a dream, which annoys me because angels don't sleep, but it turns out she means a mushroom-induced hallucination. She tells Dean that so many things had to happen for Jack to end up here, it was obviously "meant to be." Which doesn't sit well with Dean. Meanwhile, Adam explains to Jack that because of what God did to him and his sons, he's been wanting to kill him for a very long time. Billie is working with him, and kept him alive so he could finish the job. They've just been waiting for Jack. Adam shows him a tray of crystals and tells him to pick the one that was touched by God. Jack points to one, and Adam is disappointed. That's your choice? Yes. And... the others. All of them. They're just rocks, but their existence makes them divine, because God is in everything. And that's the right answer! Jack and Adam return, triumphant, and Seraphina celebrates by plunging a knife into Adam's chest and prying out a rib. Ew. "Everything can contain the spark of the divine, but this puppy? Is packing enough punch to create life. Or in this case, destroy God." With the power of the rib, Jack will turn into a "metaphysical black hole for divine energy" that nothing can escape. Not Amara, not God. But once is starts, it can't be stopped, so Jack shouldn't use it until "game time."

I'm pleased that Adam is a Middle Eastern guy. Back in the Impala, some hours later, Dean pulls over right before they get home. He apologizes to Jack for hearing what he heard. Not for saying it, but for Jack hearing it. He tells Jack that he hasn't been free his entire life. "But now, now me and Sam, we got a shot at living a life. Without all this crap on our backs. And that's because of you. So, I want to say, I need to say, thank you, Jack." Well, that's a nice emotional moment, but isn't Jack doing this to save the world? Not just to get Dean off the hamster wheel? Dean's phone buzzes. It's time. Jack takes the rib out of its baggie and absorbs it into his hand and oh, Jack, I don't think I'd have done that just yet. Bunker. Is this Sam's section? Yes, it is! \o/ Sam hurls a book to the floor in frustration and is comforted by Cas. Guys, Sam and Cas tend to do some crazy fucked-up shit when they're left together unsupervised, and I am here for it. Sam wishes he could talk to Billie about her plan, and Cas immediately assumes he's going to kill himself and puts his foot down. But Sam suddenly remembers what Sergei said about the key to Death's library. "Oh, is that why I invited Sergei here to the secret bunker," Cas says, "because now that makes sense." They start digging through old wooden chests and I'm fairly sure these are boxes full of cursed objects, although all they find are a large novelty chess piece, a gold leaf cross from Hobby Lobby, and the Holy Grail.

Tell me you didn't think the same thing. But Cas eventually does find the box with the key. The box has an inscription in Latin, which Sam reads out loud. By the way, Sam Latinating is always hot, even though he looks like he doesn't understand what he's saying. As the guys watch in amazement, a portal and keyhole appear in the wall. Cas wants to go with, but Sam asks him to stay and buy him some time if Dean comes back before he gets out, even if that sounds crazy. "Sam, for what it's worth, I don't think you're crazy," Cas says. "I think your internal compass is functioning perfectly." And Sam's all, aw, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time.

"Donde está la biblioteca?” He puts the key in the keyhole and opens the door into the W section of Billie's library. I want him to start pulling books off the shelves and reading versions of his death, but he's distracted by a dead reaper on the floor. And more dead reapers. And the sound of one begging for her life and then noisily dying. He finally sees Empty!Meg (\o/) sitting at the circulation desk, as another reaper pleads for his life. "Please," he cries, "she won't come!" He prays unsuccessfully for Billie to come, and gets his neck snapped for his trouble. Sam immediately tries to nope the hell out of there, but Empty!Meg snaps her fingers and he appears in front of her. Sam Winchester? Meg? Sorry, she's still dead. Just borrowing the queen's pretty face cause really? I'm empty. {Sidebar: Why would Meg's meatsuit go to the Empty with her? Discuss.} Empty!Meg is trying to get Billie's attention, and she drops a bombshell on Sam. Billie intends to become the new God. "Classic narcissist, right? So tingly for the rules, the good old days. Everyone back to where they belong. Realities, dimensions, graves. What should be dead dies, angels off Earth, demons back to Hell, and I go back to sleep!" Oh, wait. Graves? So anyone who was dead at some point, and was brought back to life, would go back to the grave? She tells Sam that he's in God's book - the ornate book in front of her that only Billie can read. "She always talked about how you should be so dead, except she needs you." Empty!Meg decides that hurting Sam might get Billie's attention, and well, y'all know I'm not opposed to that. (If you're new here, hi, my name is caranfindel and I have a problem.) She brings Sam to his knees, but he finally manages to say "Billie sent me." Oh, Sam. He claims Billie sent him to get the book, because she's trapped on Earth. Empty!Meg can't go to Earth unless she's summoned (hmmm, wonder if that will come up later), and Sam says he has a message for her, from Billie. "Billie will honor her promise. God, Amara, they die. And you, you can go back to sleep." Empty!Meg decides to believe Sam, even though he didn't even know who she was or why she was there when he got there, or that Billie had even made any promises, but I'd have a hard time saying no to that face too.

I'll believe your lies. When Sam comes back through the door into the bunker, Cas greets him with "finally" as if he's been gone a long time, so time must flow differently in Billie's library. Cas tells him Chuck and Amara are here, and it's time. "We can't let that happen," says Sam. "We have to stop it." In the trap, Chuck narrates what's happening elsewhere in the bunker. "You hear that? Dean. Brought to the edge of doubt. His sense of duty, his rage, winning out in the end." As Dean drags Jack through the hall, Sam tells him about Billie's plan to take advantage of the power vacuum and become God. Dean doesn't care - he doesn't mind being duped as long as it's not by Chuck. "And poor Sam," says Chuck. "Always gotta know everything. Can't leave well enough alone." Poor Sam stands in front of Dean, trying to stop him. Dean yells that Jack already "lit the fuse" and they can't wait any longer. "This is my ending," Chuck says. "My real ending." And just as I'm wondering if he means his preferred ending, where one brother always kills another, Dean pulls his gun out and points it at Sam's heart. "Move, Sam. Move!" Sam's horrified. Cas and Jack are horrified. I'm horrified. And also, I'm ashamed to say, very entertained. I mean, I don't want the brothers fighting, and yet for Dean to lose the plot so badly that he'd actually shoot Sam in order to get off the hamster wheel? That's some gloriously messed up stuff, friends. Amara is shocked that Chuck orchestrated all of this. "What part of omniscient do you people not understand?" he says, and YES. THIS is something that has long needed to be said. He says that even though he can't read his death book, all he had to do was plant a few visions, mess with a few outcomes, bada bing bada boom! Nobody's killing him! Hallway. Sam pleads with Dean. "I don't want to do this," Dean says, "but this is everything!"

THIS is everything. Trap. Amara tells Chuck they're going to cage him, not kill him. Hallway. Dean does that thing you do with a gun when you want someone to know you're serious. Clicks off the safety, or whatever. Sam makes a have we really come to this? face and yanks Dean's gun hand away. Dean punches him and he drops to the floor. Trap. Chuck tells Amara that TFW is planning to kill both of them. Hallway. Dean drags Jack toward the trap and Sam tackles him. Dean punches him again. Cas just watches all this. What the hell, Cas. Trap. Chuck says the Winchesters are using Jack to destroy them. Amara says that can't be, because Dean can't hurt her. "No, but he can lie to you. He can send you into the meat grinder with a wink and a smile." But isn't that hurting her? Hallway. Dean orders Cas and Jack to go. Sam yells for Jack not to do it. Cas asks why not, because... Cas has suddenly forgotten what side of this argument he's on? "Because if Billie takes over, then everyone goes back to where they belong!" Sam says. "That means everybody from Apocalypse World - Bobby, Charlie - they get sent back to a place that doesn't exist any more. And everyone we saved! Eileen, she just dies, again! And that's just the beginning!" Trap. Amara is devastated. Hallway. Dean yells that they don't have a choice, and Sam says "we always have a choice!" Trap. Chuck tells Amara "the only ones who ever really get us is us." Hallway. Dean says there's nothing they can do but get out of the way, and he doesn't care if Billie becomes God. I'd trade it all, I'd trade 'em all, for Chuck! In a heartbeat! What about me? Would you trade me? Okay, is this Sam pointing out that if Billie becomes God, he dies? Because it's awfully subtle, and I think he just needs to come right and say "that's fine, Dean, but when I told you everyone we saved would die again, I meant everyone, and that includes me!" And Dean would probably also want to know that angels will be banished to Heaven, don't you think, Sam? Anyway. I saw this on Tumblr, and I can't get to it now because Tumblr is being a little bitch, but basically: Sam Winchester may have low self-worth, but he absolutely knows what he means to his brother, and he does not hesitate to use it. Trap. Chuck offers Amara the balance she said she wanted. "Us, starting fresh, creating something new, something beautiful, peaceful, together. And we can finally forget about all this pain. No baggage. Only balance." He extends a hand. Amara takes it and dissolves into smoke, which is absorbed by Chuck, who now has one demon-black eye and one angel-blue eye. And a sadistic grin. Hallway. Chuck has to die. He has to! Otherwise he'll keep us tap dancing forever, and I can't live like that, man! I can't live like that; I won't! I know you feel like that right now, okay? I know you do. But you gotta trust me. My entire life, you've protected me. From Dad? From Lucifer? From everything. I didn't always like it, you know, but it's the one thing in the whole world that I could always count on. It's the only thing I've ever known that was true. So please, put the gun away. Just put it away. We'll figure it out, Dean; we'll find another way. You and me. We always do. Gotta admit, I'm torn about this scene. I mean, on the one hand, it's beautifully done, so much emotion and angst and anger and teary-eyed, shaky Sam. Once again, Jared is acting the hell out of it. (And Jensen too, but come on.) And yet, on the other hand... how bad is Sam's Stockholm Syndrome? "You protected me from Dad?" Have we seen any evidence of that? I'm sure Dean was forced to be the referee sometimes, but have we seen any evidence that Dean ever said "no Sam, you're not disowned just because you want to stop hunting and go to college" or "no Dad, I'm not even going to pretend I'll kill Sam," rather than consider it an option until he was actually faced with it? It seems like "protecting Sam from Dad" mostly meant "trying to get Sam to do what Dad wanted, so he'd stay out of trouble." And Lucifer? When Sam told him he was Lucifer's vessel, and the Devil was coming to him in his dreams, Dean basically said "sucks to be you, now pick a hemisphere." Now, I'm aware that Dean has actually protected Sam from many, many things. In good ways and in bad ways. And yet he's also hurt him in some pretty awful ways. I mean, he just now threatened to shoot him for refusing to accept his destiny is to help Dean escape the slavery of his destiny. So for Sam to say "you protect me" is one thing. Dean absolutely does that. But to say it's the only thing that's true, and to specifically mention John and Lucifer, well. Hmmm.

Let's just concentrate on the pretty. Anyway. Dean puts the gun away, Sam sighs a tearful shaky sigh of relief, and then the door to Amara's trapped room explodes. Chuck walks out dramatically - not nearly as hot as Demon!Demon dramatically walking through his own destroyed door - and yells at them. "Are you kidding me? After everything, after all that, you did it again!" He tells them he absorbed Amara, mocks Castiel (which is kind of funny), and says they're all stupid, stubborn, and broken, and he's done with them. "You know what you do with broken toys? You throw them out. So, kill each other, don't kill each other, I don't care." Then he tells them to have fun watching Jack die, and zaps on out of there. Jack collapses, and bad things are clearly happening to him. Well, it's hard to get worked up over Jack dying again (what would this be, the third time?). After all, as Dean said, he's not Sam. I'm more interested in finding out if Dean understood he was sentencing Sam to death when he said he didn't care if Billie became God. {Sidebar: Would Dean die too? Or would everything that happened because Sam was brought back be erased? Discuss. And maybe fic.} And now Amara is gone. But, conveniently, destroying Chuck will also destroy her, so. Balance! Unity! Hugs and puppies all around! Oh, friends. The end is near, and I don't feel good about it. I'm anxious about a lot of things happening next week, and the third-to-last episode of Supernatural is one of them. How do you feel? 

Please help me stay unspoiled, including episode titles and casting info, thanks!

[scapegrace74-blog]

Gratitude

A/N  When we last saw Jamie and Claire, they’d crashed, burned (somewhat literally) and declared their mutual interest in each other in their individual ways.   Whither now, our pair?

All other parts of the Metric Universe are available on my AO3 page.

The song by Big Red Machine (another guest artist!) that inspired the title is here.

June 1, 2018, Costa Coffee, Whitechapel, London, England

“It feels like ye might be avoiding me, Sassenach.”

It occurred to her that Jamie knew her schedule and habits to an uncomfortable degree for him to be at her favourite coffee shop at exactly the point in her shift when she could no longer resist the siren call of caffeine.

Since the fire in their building and Jamie’s subsequent profession of love, they’d been living under separate roofs.  Claire was sleeping on the couch at the home of one of her fellow medical students, and Jamie was bunking down with his uncle.  Their flat had escaped the flames, suffering only smoke damage, but it would be at least eight weeks before the building was declared structurally sound and they could move back in.

Heading to the counter, Claire purchased her usual extra-large oat milk cortado with a fruited teacake, then added a flat black with raw sugar for Jamie.  Settling across from him, she slid his coffee across the tiny table before splitting her teacake and balancing half on his saucer.  He nodded his thanks, but was otherwise silent, waiting her out.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she began, surprising them both with the frankness of her opening salvo.  It helped, she found, to be paying undue attention to stirring her coffee as she spoke.

“That doesna sound like ye, mo nighean donn.   Why don’t ye tell me what part is vexin’ ye, an’ we can see if we canna bash our brains t’gether til we come up wi’ a plan, aye?”

She knew what he was doing.  Cleverly depersonalizing their situation so that she could approach it like any other problem.  Part of her resented his easy manipulation, grounded as it was in how well he knew her.  But there was a secret part of her that thrilled at the emotional intimacy.  To be seen, truly seen, in all her messy complexity, was a novel experience.  Jamie knew the architecture of her heart, all its dark corners and blind hallways.  He must have recognized something worthy, to be willing to so patiently coax her away from her solitude.

Plus, she’d spent the last year training him to leave the toilet seat down.  That wasn’t the sort of work you just walked away from.

“It’s... god, where do I start?  It’s having no idea what it means to be in a healthy adult relationship.  And the crippling fear that if I fuck this up, it’ll ruin our friendship, which is so important to me, Jamie.  I don’t think you have any idea...  Plus our living situation...”

“We arenna livin’ t’gether for the moment, Sassenach,” Jamie interrupted.  He had leaned forward across the table as she stammered through her recitation, and his curls had flopped across his brow in that boyish way they had.  Her chest tightened, torn between affection and blind terror.

“No.  That’s true.”

“With yer permission, I’d like tae make a suggestion.”  At her cautious nod, Jamie continued.  “For the next two months, we willna be roommates.  I’d like tae... court ye...”

“Court me?!” Claire blurted out.  “What, like in a Jane Austen novel?”  She couldn’t help but smile at Jamie as he blushed, but he continued undeterred.

“Aye, like that.  Ye’re used tae havin’ all the answers, Sassenach, but this isna one of yer wee tests tha’ ye can study for.  We’re gonna have tae wing it, and see where it takes us.  But I promise ye, I willna play ye false and I willna walk away.  Will ye at least give this thing between us a chance?  If it doesna work, we can go back tae livin’ t’gether as friends, no questions asked.”

At some point during his speech, their hands had met across the table.  She could feel Jamie’s trembling through his fingertips.  He was scared too, but he was being brave because he felt it was worth the risk.  How could she dare to do otherwise?

“Alright,” she conceded, and his smile warmed her face like sunshine.  “What do you propose, then?  Shall I don my best parlour gown and set out the petit fours, Master Fraser?”

“Och, I dinna mean tae be makin’ me call me master quite yet, Sassenach,” he teased, delighting in her blush.  “I’ll be at yer door t’morrow.  Three sharp.  Wear somethin’ comfortable an’ bring a jumper for after dark.”

Finishing his teacake in three large bites, Jamie hopped up from his seat and brushed the crumbs from his jeans.  With a mischievous grin and a cock-eyed wink, he raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles.

“Until tomorrow then, milady.”

Jesus Christ, what had she just done?

***

To her relief, Jamie showed up at Joe’s front door in his usual jeans and Henley, not a frock coat and jodhpurs  He wasn’t even carrying flowers.  Joe tried to buttonhole him with talk of the previous night’s football match, but after a few minutes of polite chitchat Jamie ushered Claire out the door, joking that he’d have her home before curfew.

She wasn’t quite sure what to make of his behaviour.  The Jamie she knew had always been charming, when he wasn’t busy putting his foot in his mouth.  Now she marveled at his apparent ease as they descended the steps into the Tube.

Heading west on the District Line, thoughts continued to assail her.  Was he always this self-confident on a date?  How often did he go out with other women, anyway?  She’d assumed she knew everything there was to know about Jamie, but maybe she was wrong.  Before Frank, her last date had been back in nursing school, and a VHS player and copious cheap beer had been involved.  Despite the over-zealous air conditioning in their train, her palms began to sweat.

“Ye needn’t be afraid of me, Claire,” Jamie’s soft burr interrupted her quiet panic attack.  “I’m no’ going tae suddenly turn into some man ye dinna recognize, just because I’m tryin’ tae romance ye a wee bit.”

Once again, with only a few words Jamie had peeled away her layers of confusion and doubt to strike at the core of what was bothering her.  She forced herself to take a deep breath and immediately recognized Jamie’s scent; a blend of laundry detergent, his vetiver bar soap, and a touch of chlorine left over from the morning’s swim.  It set her at ease.  He hadn’t worn cologne.  His left boot had a frayed lace that had needed changing since March.  His cuticles were as inexplicably perfectly formed as always.  He was her Jamie, and she could trust him to behave in accordance with what she already knew of him, even in this uncharted territory.

“So, where exactly are we going?” she asked after the crackling announcement for St. James Park had died away.

“Would it ease yer mind a wee bit, tae ken?”

“Maybe a wee bit,” she confessed.

“Well, then, how can I refuse?  Have ye e’er been tae the Chelsea Physic Garden, Sassenach?”

***

As it turned out, by some grievous oversight she hadn’t.  Wedged between a high brick wall and the Thames was a three hundred and fifty year old urban oasis, filled with plants that could either treat your ailments or kill you.  Naturally, she was enchanted.  Jamie followed her between the beds and down the shaded lanes of pea gravel, a soft smile held between his lips.

When the garden closed, they walked along the Embankment and over the Thames at Chelsea Bridge, stopping to watch the sun set over the murky water.  A food truck beckoned with its aroma of chips and burgers, which they ate on a nearby bench, going back for extra napkins when their choice in toppings proved especially messy.

It was the least romantic meal she’d ever eaten, and she was soothed and smitten in equal measure.

Washing grease from his hands in a drinking fountain, Jamie turned to her in the half-light.

“Now, I have a verra important question of ye, Sassenach, and how ye answer will determine the future course of our evening t’gether.”

Here it was, she balked.  The hook at the end of the line. The sour amongst so much sweetness.  She shouldn’t have expected...

“Are ye,” Jamie continued, unaware of her inner monologue, “afraid of heights?”

... no different than any other man, with his...

“Am I what?” she blurted, once her brain caught up with her ears.

“Afraid of heights?  An’ a bit of a scamper up some scaffolding?”

Jamie was pointing over her shoulder.  She peered into the night, but all she could make out was the hulking shadow of the derelict Battersea Power Station.

***

It was a convoluted story, but the outline went something like this: the massive coal-fired station, with its four spire-like chimneys, was slated for redevelopment.  Jamie had taken part in an onsite review of the location by the London Fire Service, and had befriended a representative of the developer.  Somehow, this friend had granted Jamie access to the site, which is how Claire now found herself over fifty metres above the ground, climbing a seemingly endless series of metal steps, with her curls trying to escape the confines of a workman’s hard hat.

“You really know how to show a girl a good time, Jamie Fraser,” she grumbled as they came to a landing made out of scaffolding.   Above them, a white chimney ascended into the dome of the sky.

“Ye canna say I dinna take yer breath away, Sassenach,” he teased.

She was about to retort when they stepped around the base of the chimney tower, and all words failed her.

Rolled out far below their feet, the Thames was a black carpet reflecting millions of pinpoint gems skyward, broken by belts of light where it was traversed by a bridge.  Beyond the eastern bend in the river, the City glowed with its eternal hum.  The colossal space taken up by the station was a palpable presence behind their backs.

“It reminds me of yer Uncle Lamb’s saying, about makin’ our present out of the bones of our past.  Twasn’t the original plan, but here she stands, still vital and strong, being remade anew.  An’ a beautiful vision fer all tha’.”

She wasn’t convinced that Jamie was talking about the power station.  

A cool breeze blew off the river, and she shivered.  A jacket still warm with body heat immediately covered her shoulders.   They stood side by side in silence, just taking in the view.

When their hands bumped, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to thread her fingers with his own.

“You’ve set the bar impossibly high for any future dates, you know,” she commented eventually.

“Ye’re only sayin’ that because ye dinna ken what I have planned next.”  His grin was impossibly smug, and she fought the urge to kiss it right off his beautiful mouth.  He must have read the impulse in her eyes, because his face was slowly approaching her own, eyes a volatile mix of hope and trepidation.

Her own eyes fluttered closed in anticipation.  Just as their lips should have been meeting, their was a ductile crunch, and their heads bounced apart with comedic timing.  Their hard helmets had collided.  Jamie swore softly beneath his breath, but Claire couldn’t stop giggling.

“Oh, thank god.  It is you.  I was beginning to wonder.”

***

It was late when they finally exited the Tube, but Jamie insisted on accompanying Claire all the way to the Abernathy’s front door.  She handed him back his leather jacket, feeling suddenly awkward in the brightly lit hall.  The date had been magical, far beyond her wildest expectations, and it felt strange to return to the prosaic reality of their lives.

“Thank you for a wonderful time, Jamie.”

“Twas my pleasure, Sassenach.   I’ve missed ye, these past few weeks.  And I really hope... well, you’ll tell me if you want to do somethin’ like this again, aye?”  His hand went to the back of his neck in a gesture she knew well.  Bless the man, he had no idea the effect he had on her.  It was well past time to let him know.

“I’d love that.  Truly.  I’ve got final exams to study for, but maybe sometime next week?”

"Well then,” he replied, clearly delighted with her response.  “I should let ye get some sleep.  Good luck on yer exams, Sassenach.   And thank ye, fer bein’ willing tae give this a chance.  Twas a day I’ll ne’er forget.”

He began to walk away.

“Jamie!”  He turned around.

“Aye?”

Walking forward to the beat of her pounding heart, she halted when their bellies were practically touching.  Lifting up on tiptoe, she pressed into his mouth.  Time slowed to a syrupy drip as their lips met for the first time.  His rough exhale was the only sound in the cocoon of sensation that enveloped them.  It felt like she was falling through an endless cloud. Too soon, she had to pull away to capture her breath, and the spell was broken.  Judging by his moonstruck expression, Jamie had been equally affected.  She smiled when she realized his arms were still held aloft, like he was trying to hold on to the memory of their kiss.

“Goodnight, James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser,” she purred before she disappeared from his sight.